


Quarrels and Hazardous Adventures

by SuePokorny



Series: The Cardinal Mazarin Files [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:47:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Treville and Aramis are attacked from the shadows, the Musketeers try to prove Cardinal Mazarin's culpability in the crime. But with Milady and Rochefort still at large, are any of them safe? The exciting conclusion to a four story arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This is it! The final installment of my four-story arc. Whew. ☺ Many, many thanks to my beta Sharlot. Such a trooper. I hope you all have enjoyed this little adventure and I appreciate all of you who have stuck with me through the journey. I hope you enjoy!!

Quarrels and Hazardous Adventures

Aramis took another gulp of his ale, trying to ignore the eyes that had been fixed upon him throughout the evening. It had been quiet in Paris for a fortnight, ever since the Dauphin had been returned safely to the palace after the attempted kidnapping, and it wasn’t unusual for the soldiers to relax in their favorite tavern, imbibing spirits and enjoying their shared camaraderie until the next crisis unveiled.

What was unusual was having Treville join them and spend most of the evening sipping wine, listening to stories, his hawk-like eyes watching him whenever he glanced the Captain’s way.

It was… unnerving.

Of course, it could’ve simply been his imagination that Treville’s eyes had been on him all night, the perceived scrutiny a product of a guilty conscience. He looked away from d’Artagnan, who was regaling him with a tale of the hunt he and Porthos had accompanied King Louis on that afternoon, only to see Treville’s eyes studying him again from across the table. The man quickly looked away, but Aramis had the sense the Captain believed if he stared hard or long enough, Aramis’ deep dark secrets would bubble to the surface.

Aramis didn’t fool himself into thinking Treville did not know he harbored those secrets. Though he was confident his superior officer was blissfully unaware of the exact content and the danger inherent in the knowledge of them, he was still curious and had obviously decided to attempt to fathom what was going on with one of his most trusted men.

Leaving Paris so abruptly had been Aramis’ biggest mistake. Treville had seen his depressive state, knowing something of importance had happened and was being kept from him. Being the good commander he was, he did not pry, trusting that Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan – Aramis’ closest friends – could handle the problem.

When Aramis had walked away, resigned his commission, Treville had allowed Porthos leave to follow and drag him back. Since then, Aramis had made great efforts to hide his melancholy, knowing Anne and their son needed him here and fit for duty despite not being able to acknowledge their true reasons. After Cardinal Mazarin’s thinly veiled threat in the corridor of the Palace, Aramis had felt a renewed desire to protect and defend The Queen and the Dauphin. Knowing – but unable to prove – Mazarin had orchestrated the kidnapping of the baby for his own end, still infuriated the marksman, but he had sworn, not only to himself but to Athos and Porthos, that he would be patient. The new First Minister would soon enough make a mistake and place his own neck in the noose, and Aramis vowed to be there to tighten the knot.

D’Artagnan, realizing his audience’s attention was elsewhere, had moved on to a game of cards with Porthos, leaving Aramis, Athos and Treville at the table. Before Aramis could speak, Treville stood, draining his cup and placed his hat on his head. He excused himself with a claim of mounting paperwork, and with a bow, he took his leave and left the tavern.

Aramis placed his ale on the table and hurried after him.

“Captain!” he called as soon as he stepped onto the cobblestones of the Rue des Rosiers. Treville turned, his eyes highlighted by the moon hanging in the cloudless night sky. Aramis stepped closer, his head down, unsure of exactly why he had followed Treville, but knowing something needed to be said to alleviate the tension between them.

“Aramis?” Treville responded, coolly. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword and cocked a leg, waiting, calculating eyes once again on the Spaniard.

Aramis took a deep breath and raised his head, meeting his captain’s gaze. He was well aware he could not explain his predicament to the Captain. As much as he trusted Treville, the man was loyal to a fault and he took his oath to the King seriously above all else. He would not understand what had led to his tryst with the Queen, and he could not expect a man as honorable as Treville to overlook what was considered a treasonous crime. But he needed to say something to explain the strain this secret had wrought upon them, and he hoped a heartfelt apology could alleviate some of Treville’s unease. “Captain, I understand your concern. I know as of late I’ve –“

Treville held up a hand and smiled gently. “Aramis, I told you when you returned that I respect your desire to handle whatever has been troubling you in your own way. And I can see you have strived to do so. I do not doubt your commitment to the regiment.”

Aramis shook his head, confused. “Then why have you been watching me all night?”

Treville chuckled and stepped closer. “Can’t a Captain simply spend an evening with his men?”

“Of course. But it is… unusual.”

Treville nodded. “True. I will admit I was observing, but not just you, Aramis. All of you. I have a decision to make and I needed assurance that the regiment would be in good hands.”

Aramis’ relief warred with alarm at the Captain’s words. “In good hands? Captain, you aren’t considering leaving the Musketeers?”

Treville took a deep breath and rubbed a hand across his face. “That is exactly the decision I must make.” At the soldier’s stricken look, he quickly continued. “The King has offered me a position on his Counsel. He has graciously given me a few days to consider the request, but we both know Louis is not a patient man, nor does he take rejection well.”

Aramis was at a loss. “While it would be fortuitous for France to have a man such as yourself at the King’s side, I can’t help but regret what such a loss would mean to the regiment.”

“Which is why I have to choose my recommendation carefully.”

“But, I always assumed Athos would be your choice.”

Treville nodded thoughtfully. “He is, but, it is no secret Athos is apt to lose himself in a bottle on occasion. I needed to see if the support system I worked to put in place is still intact.”

Aramis was beginning to understand. “Support, as in Porthos and I.”

“And now, d’Artagnan to a degree.”

“I assure you, Captain, Athos will make a fine leader. And we will always stand beside him.”

“As I have observed.”

Aramis sighed, not wanting to ask the next question, but feeling it was something Treville needed to answer. “So you have already made your decision to –“

He caught the familiar flash of the musket out of the corner of his eyes, the distinctive sound of the shot ringing through the narrow street. Treville made a muffled sound of surprise before he jerked then tipped forward, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. Aramis reached out an arm to cushion the older man’s fall, instinctively reaching for his pistol with the other, drawing and firing into the shadows at the end of the alley where the muzzle flash had sparked moments before.

Treville’s sudden weight brought them to their knees, a fortunate shift that probably saved both their lives. Another shot sounded in the darkness, and Aramis felt a white-hot pain in his head as his vision spiraled into a myriad of colors. He fell, not even registering the cold damp ground beneath him, blinking as he attempted to clear the sudden confusion running rampant through his mind.

He was vaguely aware of the Captain’s inert body lying close to him, as well as the muffled shouts and sounds of footsteps rapidly nearing, but was unable to make sense of any of it. He blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused, vaguely wondering why the stars were so suddenly vivid in the heavens tonight.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos leaned back in his chair, unconcerned as Aramis darted from the tavern in Treville’s wake. He knew the Captain had been watching the marksmen – as he had all of them -- but to what end he had not yet determined. Treville was one of the most intelligent, observant men he had met; such that made him a good soldier and even better commander, and Athos had no doubt he knew something was amiss. So far, Treville had kept his own counsel concerning the matter and Athos had hoped he would continue to do so. When the Captain had excused himself, Athos had sighed in relief, assuming the man had come to a satisfactory conclusion to whatever plagued his thoughts.

Of course Aramis hadn’t been able to leave it alone. Athos toyed with the thought of interceding before the Spaniard could do something stupid, but had forced himself to remain seated, trusting Aramis’ new found resolve to keep him in check. Despite his misgivings about the man’s ability to control his feelings concerning the Queen and the Dauphin, he knew he and Porthos could not run interference for their friend forever, and they had to trust he could deal with it on his own at some point. Aramis had seemed to find a new purpose since he’d returned from Perpignan, and Athos was glad to see it. He believed his friend would find a way to deal with the turmoil inside him, just as Athos had learned to deal with his own feelings of unrest. Of course, he hoped Aramis would not take the same path as he – indulging in wine to forget only made the memories that much more powerful when the numbness wore off – but drinking to excess was not Aramis’ style. He tended to have a more righteous way of dealing with self-contempt and condemnation, prayer and reparation being the crutches that kept him moving forward.

The sound of a musket shot brought him out of his musings and his eyes sought Porthos’, finding the man already on his feet and heading for the door. Dropping his cup to the table, he pushed back his chair in a rush, knocking it to the floor and darted through the crowd, d’Artagnan at his heels.

Outside he stopped, his mind taking a moment to register what his eyes did not want to believe. Just down the road from the tavern in a pool of moonlight, two forms lay crumpled against the cobblestones. It was silent, as if the world had stopped, frozen in this one horrific moment. 

“No!” Porthos’ voice broke the trance and the sounds of the tavern spilled out onto the dark street, swallowing the unnatural stillness of the moment. The big man moved with alacrity, kneeling in a puddle next to Aramis, while Athos fell to a crouch beside Treville. D’Artagnan, harquebus drawn and primed, ran past them, searching the shadows for any sign of further attack.

Athos ran a hand along the Captain’s back where the moonlight reflected against a murky stain. His hand came back wet and dark – blood. The familiar scent registered even as his eyes recognized the substance. Pulling his scarf from his neck, he wadded it into a ball and placed it over the wound in Treville’s back, pressing firmly, concerned that it elicited no response from the prone man.

“Aramis?” Porthos’ shaky voice caught his attention and he looked up to see Porthos turn their friend’s head, the bleeding crease at his temple dark in the low light.

“Porthos?”

“Looks like the ball just grazed him,” Porthos said with a sigh of relief. “He’s breathin’ fine. Just knocked out. What of the Captain?”

“Shot in the back,” Athos growled. “He’s losing blood. We must get him to help immediately.

Running footsteps approached and they both looked to d’Artagnan in question as he returned. The young Gascon shook his head. “Nobody,” he said between breaths. He motioned to Aramis’ pistol lying on the ground near Porthos’ feet. “Aramis must’ve got a shot off, though. Hit someone, too. I found blood. Lots of it.”

“Best shot in the garrison,” Athos smiled grimly. He looked back toward the tavern and recognized two recruits who had recently joined the regiment standing just outside the doorway. “You there,” he racked his brain for the either of the young men’s names. “Guitaut, correct?”

Nodding, the taller of the two stepped forward, his eyes wide as he took in the bloody scene before him.

“Go, find a surgeon and meet us back at the garrison.”

The recruit nodded again and took off at a run. The other stepped forward, silently offering assistance.

Athos looked back to Porthos who was wiping the trickling blood from Aramis’ face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Can you handle him?”

Porthos nodded and shifted, unbuckling Aramis’ weapons belt and letting it fall loose. He stood, keeping hold of Aramis head, took hold of one arm and in a fluid movement pulled him up and over his shoulder, securing him with an arm around the back of his legs. 

“I got ‘im,” Porthos grunted as he shifted his friend’s weight. “You think you can handle Treville?” 

Athos motioned d’Artagnan to the opposite side of the Captain, and they managed to roll him over and pull him up, one arm over each of their shoulders. Treville’s head lolled forward to a degree Athos felt would’ve been entirely uncomfortable if the man had been the least bit aware. Athos replaced the scarf over the wound as he supported the Captain’s back and motioned with his head for the other recruit to step closer, instructing the lad to take the Captain’s legs so that they were cradling him in a sitting position. The recruit first stooped to collect Aramis’ belt, receiving a grunt of appreciation from Porthos, then complied with Athos directive.

Porthos once again shifted Aramis’ weight over his shoulder and began to lead the way back to the garrison.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Guitaut and the surgeon arrived as they rushed the wounded men into the courtyard, other Musketeers emerging from the barracks to lend a hand. While Athos and d’Artagnan moved to secure Treville in one of the infirmary rooms on the main floor, Porthos carried Aramis up the steps of the barracks to his own quarters, where he gently laid him down on the narrow bed. The marksman’s head lolled to the side, the ugly gash catching the light of the lantern one of the other men graciously provided. 

Porthos took a moment to light a few more candles, giving the room a warm glow, before turning back to his unconscious friend. He quickly pulled Aramis’ doublet open, relieved to see there was no other source of blood other than the crease to his head. He brought the lantern closer to the bed, squinting as he examined the wound in the brighter light.

The ball had left a trail of bruised and abraded skin directly across Aramis’ temple and an inch or so into the dark curls. Porthos chuckled, knowing the Spaniard would not be happy with the damage to his hair, but thankful the injury was not worse. The wound was no longer bleeding, but it looked painful; a narrow, red gash surrounded by dark bruising already rising to the surface. 

Footsteps heralded company and Porthos looked up to find d’Artagnan leaning through the open doorway.

“Treville?” he asked immediately.

The younger man shrugged wearily. “The surgeon is working on him as we speak. Athos thought I would be of more use here.”

Porthos nodded, relieved to hear the Captain was still alive and receiving care.

“He’s still out,” Porthos said, his hand brushing back the side of Aramis dark curls. “We should get this cleaned before he wakes. I don’t think it’ll require needlework, but we’ll need some water, some brandy and something to bind it with to keep it clean.”

Without a word, d’Artagnan was out the door, returning momentarily with the requested items.

“That was quick.”

D’Artagnan smiled. “Serge was already on his way up. Said to tell you he’d have some broth heated when Aramis was ready for it.”

Porthos snuffed a laugh through his nose, his fondness for the garrison’s old cook apparent. The man had been around longer than Porthos could remember, and he took a special pride in keeping the King’s finest fed and fit.

He directed d’Artagnan to set the bowl of water down on the floor next to the bed, then proceeded to gently cleanse the wound and surrounding area. While he worked, d’Artagnan slid Aramis’ boots off and laid a thin blanket over his legs. When Porthos was satisfied the wound was clean, he poured some of the brandy over a cloth and dabbed it against the gash, eliciting a moan of protest from the wounded man.

“Aramis?” Porthos called, his voice pitched low and soft in deference to the ache that must be pounding inside the Spaniard’s head.

Aramis groaned and moved, trying to escape the pain the alcohol created against the open wound.

“That’s it,” Porthos coaxed. “Come on back. Time to open those eyes and tell me off.”

D’Artagnan chuckled as Aramis’ unfocused eyes opened for a moment. He reached up and pushed at Porthos’ arm weakly. “Get away fr’me,” he mumbled. 

Porthos rumbled a relieved laugh. “It’s all well and good till he’s the one on the other end of the hurt.”

“So it would seem,” d’Artagnan grinned in agreement.

“Open your eyes, Aramis. I need to check that you’re all right,” Porthos attempted to entice his friend to full awareness.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.” Aramis voice was stronger, but he didn’t open his eyes again.

“How’s your head?”

“Pounding, as you could well assume.” He squinted up at his friends in the low light of the room. “What happened?”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged a look. 

“We were hoping you could tell us,” the younger man said. 

Aramis closed his eyes again and pressed a hand to his forehead. “We were drinking?”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “Oi, but you hadn’t even started your way to a hangover yet.”

Aramis frowned, his eyes opening, but unfocused. “I was speaking with the Captain… outside…” He suddenly shot up on the bed. “Treville!”

Porthos placed a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Treville is in good hands. Athos is with him and the surgeon is already takin’ care of him.”

Aramis sighed and dropped his head to his hands. “I saw a flash… a musket?”

Porthos nodded. “You managed to return fire. Did you see anything? Get a glimpse of whoever it was doing the shooting?”

Aramis shook his head slowly and drew his knees up, resting his arms across them, his forehead lowered, cradled in his hands. “Just shadows. I saw the flash and fired at it. I have no idea if I even hit anything.”

“You hit something – or someone,” d’Artagnan assured him. “I found blood in the alley, enough to know whoever this assassin was, he isn’t going to be feeling very good tomorrow.”

“If he’s even still alive,” Porthos added.

Aramis sighed and raised his head, squinting at Porthos, the candlelight obviously too much for him at the moment. “Treville. How bad?”

Again the other two Musketeers exchanged glances, both silently wondering how much to tell their friend. Porthos opted for the truth.

“It looked bad,” he admitted. “The ball was in his back, bleedin’ pretty heavy.”

Aramis took a deep breath and shifted his feet off the bed, pushing himself weakly to the edge.

“And just where do you think you’re goin’?”

“The infirmary, of course,” the marksman said as if it was a ridiculous question. “I can be of assistance.” He pushed himself up and teetered for a moment on shaky legs before groaning and pitching forward as his tentative hold on equilibrium betrayed him. Porthos managed to catch him and eased him back down onto the mattress.

“You can’t even stand, my friend. Just how much help do you think you’re gonna be, eh?”

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed convulsively. “Perhaps you’re right.”

He didn’t object as Porthos lowered his head to the pillow and lifted his legs onto the bed. D’Artagnan pulled the blanket up to his chest and he sighed in relief as he relaxed into the mattress. 

“Of course I’m right,” Porthos smiled fondly. “Ain’t I always right? Athos will let us know the Captain’s condition as soon as he can. Right now, you need to sleep. We’ll wake you when there’s news.”

Aramis mumbled something that Porthos took as agreement, the pain lines around his eyes smoothing as sleep claimed him.

“Do you think the Captain will be all right?” d’Artagnan asked, his face expressing the worry they all felt.

“Captain Treville is the strongest man I know,” Porthos said confidently. “He’ll pull through.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince d’Artagnan or himself.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

When Aramis next circled round to awareness, he noticed the room was much lighter and winced as the brightness pulsed behind his eyelids. He took a deep breath through his nose, lifting a hand to rub at the ache that seemed to be centered on the left side of his head. A firm grip aborted the attempt and he cracked his eyes open and squinted up at the fuzzy outline perched on the edge of his bed.

Blinking rapidly, he waited as the outline coalesced into the more familiar form of Athos. The older man smiled, but his eyes were grim.

“Treville” Aramis asked, his voice husky from disuse.

“Alive,” Athos responded. “For now.”

Aramis sighed in relief and closed his eyes. “The others?”

“Porthos is getting some rest and d’Artagnan is sitting with Treville.”

“Rotation,” Aramis observed.

Athos merely grunted in return.

“What about the coward who fired on us?”

Athos took a deep breath and rose, pacing a few steps from the bed. “D’artagnan found blood near the alley, but there was no other sign. Whoever it was, is wounded, thanks to your remarkable aim.”

“If I had remarkable aim, he would be dead.”

Athos gave him a lopsided grin. “Be that as it may, Paris is a large city with many places to hide. This assassin may be difficult to ferret out without more to go on.”

“I’m sorry, Athos. I didn’t see anything – at least anything I can remember.”

Athos crossed to the bed and patted Aramis’ leg fondly. “Do not worry, my friend. Porthos and I intend to return to the alley as soon as he has rested. If there is something there, we will find it.”

Aramis pushed himself up with a groan, pausing a moment to allow his brain to slosh back into place. Once the flickering lights in his head subsided, he took a deep breath and swung himself around, letting his feet fall to the floor with a thud.

“If I advised against moving, would you listen?”

Aramis grinned. “I have had concussions before, my dear Athos. As long as I move slowly, I should be fine.”

Athos stepped closer. “You and I have different definitions of the word ‘fine’.”

“We are more alike than you care to admit.”

“Insulting me will not gain you my assistance,” Athos said dryly. Despite his words, he placed a hand on Aramis’ arm and helped him to stand, keeping a firm hold until the marksman appeared steady enough to move on his own. “And just where do you plan on going?”

“To check on the Captain,” Aramis said as if it were obvious. “Take d’Artagnan with you when you leave to investigate the alley. Three sets of eyes are better than two.”

Athos sighed but deigned not to argue with his stubborn friend. Knowing he’d won the battle, Aramis favored him with a triumphant smile. “If the surgeon is available, I shall like to discuss the Captain’s prognosis.”

Athos nodded, his eyes warily following the wounded man’s unsteady progress across the room. “I will see that he speaks to you when he returns.”

“Thank you.” Aramis sat precariously on the chair near the door and reached for his boots. He was sweating once the task of putting them on was complete, but he felt a surge of pride at accomplishing it. Pushing himself from the chair, he swayed and felt Athos’ hand grasp him beneath his elbow.

“Aramis, this is foolish. You should be in bed.”

Aramis nodded, suddenly serious and looked his friend in the eye. “There is no time for weakness, Athos. I have been weak far too long.” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, my friend, but be assured I will be able to rest much easier knowing my friends are out searching for the man who did this. I will stay with the Captain. You must do your duty. We owe Treville that much and more.”

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

The alley was ever more gloomy in the full light of day. Dirt covered the cobbles in layers, the original pavers barely distinguishable amongst the filth. The stones and wood of the buildings on either side bore wide swathes of black mold, old crates, some still filled with the remains of what Athos assumed were produce were stacked haphazardly against the buildings, carcasses of rabbits or maybe rats in a pile beside them.

The blood d’Artagnan had found the previous evening had soaked into the dirt, creating a sticky mud that had thickened to a dark brown muck. The air was fetid, and the three men wrinkled their noses at the odor permeating the narrow space.

“There’s nothing here,” Porthos growled, kicking one of the crates in aggravation. The boxes shifted, a few of the top ones tumbling to the ground, creating an even more displeasing smell as the flies and vermin scuttled to safety. Athos could relate to the big man’s frustration. He wanted nothing more than to find the coward who’d attacked Treville and Aramis from the shadows, knowing a person of such dishonor would not be quite so forthright if forced to deal face to face with a Musketeer. 

A scant shaft of sunlight managed to penetrate the gloom and illuminate a bauble lying near the edge of the bottom crate where it had been previously covered in shadow. The glint of red drew the Musketeer’s attention, and he bent low, snatching the trinket from the muck.

“What is that?” asked d’Artagnan, watching intently as the older man scraped the mud from the object, unconcerned at the ruin of his fine gloves. Athos’ eyes narrowed and his mouth set into a hard line as he held the ruby up to the light. A burn began to form in his stomach, an umbrage he had not felt in a long, long time.

“It is a ruby,” he responded, his voice cold. “ A fine one from what I can see.”

D’Artagnan moved closer, inspecting the jewel that Athos held between his fingers.

The young Gascon frowned. “I’ve seen that before.”

Athos nodded. “If I am not mistaken, it is the ruby clasp that adorns the cloak worn by the Comte de Rochefort.”

“Rochefort?” Porthos huffed. “Why would Rochefort want to harm the Captain?”

Athos dropped the ruby into a pocket. “An excellent question. I suggest we find the man and ask him.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Milady stepped inside the shabby Inn, her eyes searching the shadows as she made her way cautiously up the creaking staircase to the room at the far end of the narrow hallway. She glanced over her shoulder, making sure she had been unobserved, pushed open the door and entered the small, dark room, pausing against the warped wood to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim light within.

The drapes across the tiny windows were drawn, allowing only a few slivers of light to penetrate the imposing darkness. She crossed to the east window and pulled the material from the opening, bathing the room in the stark sunlight.

To her amusement, she realized the room looked better in the dark.

There was little furniture, and what there was appeared to be rickety and far from comfortable. Nevertheless, she slid a wooden chair toward the narrow cot in the corner of the room and perched upon it, staring at the man still asleep on the thin mattress.

Rochefort looked better than he had the night before, the pain tincture she had procured from the surgeon who had attended him obviously doing its job and allowing the man respite enough to rest. She had been thrilled when Rochefort’s shot had found its mark in Captain Treville’s back, making the long hours of waiting in that disgusting alley worthwhile. She had been disappointed to see the handsome Musketeer, Aramis, speaking with Treville, knowing how much sweeter it would have been for Athos to be the one to witness the Captain’s death, but she wasn’t going to complain. The Cardinal would be pleased the Queen’s champion had been collateral damage, and Mazarin’s delight would increase his confidence in her abilities.

It turned out, Rochefort was as good with a pistol as he’d claimed, the shot hitting its mark despite the darkness and the distance. Unfortunately, Aramis proved to be as proficient, if not more so. Firing blind into the shadows, the Musketeer had managed to put a ball through Rochefort’s arm, disabling the man and forcing her to take matters into her own hands. While she was a good shot given proper time and preparation, her hasty return fire had barely grazed the younger Musketeer, but had bought them the time to make good their escape. She had retrieved the fallen pistol and forced Rochefort to his feet, secreting them out of the alley and to this rundown Inn. Finding a surgeon whose silence could be bought for a few livre had been simple. The man had been efficient, if not gentle. The ball had passed through Rochefort’s arm cleanly without damaging the bone and once sewn up, he was advised to rest and avoid use of the limb for a few days.

The man had grumbled, clearly in pain, and she had parted with a few more livre for the tincture, hoping to appease him and keep him quiet. From the looks of things, the medication had been adequate.

There had been no word yet from the garrison as to the condition of Captain Treville, and the fact did cause her concern. If the shot had killed him, she was sure the word would have spread to the palace immediately, but so far, her agents had reported nothing out of the ordinary and she feared the Captain still lived. She had seen him fall, sure the wound was a fatal one, but these damned Musketeers had a tendency to surprise her with their tenacity. It was a source of aggravation and one she hoped would be eliminated soon.

A groan from the wounded man brought her from her musings and she placed a hand on Rochefort’s forehead, gauging the man’s temperature to be close to normal. Good, infection would have been most inconvenient.

As he rose to wakefulness, Rochefort turned bleary eyes to her and she smiled.

“I am glad to see you feeling better,” she said mildly.

“It’s a wonder I haven’t died from some disease considering this hovel you’ve brought me to.”

“Now, now, my dear Comte,” she soothed. “You must realize how dangerous it would be to have your injury known. The Musketeers are not as incompetent as the Cardinal would have you believe. It would not be wise to underestimate their acuity, especially when it comes to the death of their Captain.”

“So Treville is dead?”

She took a deep breath and tilted her head. “If not yet, then soon. Your shot was true.”

Rochefort frowned. “But you don’t know for sure?”

Reluctantly she shook her head. “There has been no word as of yet. But we both saw him fall. Nobody could survive such a wound.”

“Unless they had adequate medical care,” Rochefort said derisively. “Which does seem to be lacking around here.”

Milady smiled patiently. “The surgeon was discreet,” she offered. “And your wound was not serious. You will survive.”

“This is what you call surviving?” Rochefort waved his good arm to indicate the dank, little room. “This is abhorrent. How dare you deem to think this is adequate for someone of my station.”

She took another calming breath, pushing her frustration at the tone of resentment and air of superiority she’d come to expect from the nobility into the back of her mind.

“I might remind you, you no longer carry your title, Comte. You serve at the pleasure of the Cardinal, as do I.”

“Serve the Cardinal? Mazarin is nothing. I did serve the Cardinal. Richelieu was a great man. Now his incompetent replacement expects me to skulk around in the shadows, doing his dirty work while he sits in luxury at the right hand of the King.” He shook his head vigorously. “No. I will not play this game anymore.”

“You have no choice,” Milady reminded him, trying desperately to diffuse his anger. It would not help to have him back in the bastille. She had assured Mazarin she could control Rochefort, and she needed the former Comte to carry out her plan. If he angered the Cardinal by refusing to follow his directives, Mazarin would not hesitate to have him tossed back into prison, and she would be left to deal with the revenge on those who’d harmed her alone. No. She would not allow Rochefort’s short-sightedness to ruin all she had worked for. “With Treville dead, the King will be left vulnerable. The Cardinal would be in a position to gain Louis’ full trust. The King is weak. Once secure, Mazarin will be able to convince the King to dissolve the Musketeers, making the Red Guard and their Captain the prevailing force in Paris. If Mazarin succeeds, our fortunes are made. You would risk that for such a trivial inconvenience as this?”

Rochefort narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “I thought your true goal was revenge against your husband, Comtesse.”

“It is,” she admitted, knowing she had him back on track. “But security and fortune are always welcome incentive. And for now, my goals coincide with the Cardinal’s, as do yours, Guillaume.”

The use of his given name surprised him and she smiled charmingly. “You’d be surprised the information you can ascertain given the proper incentive.” She placed a hand on his arm and squeezed lightly. “Patience, my dear Comte. All will work to our advantage.”

Rochefort studied her and she held her smile of confidence. He finally nodded, placing his hand over hers. “I will trust in your judgment for now, Milady. But I must warn you, if Treville lives and Mazarin’s plan is for naught, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands. Your husband’s part in my downfall will not be forgotten. I will have my satisfaction.”

“Fear not, Rochefort, I will do all within my power to give you what you so rightly deserve.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan quietly opened the door and stepped inside the sick room, expecting to find Aramis seated beside the Captain, his face planted in a book to bide his time. Instead he found the marksman sitting on one of the chairs near the table, his body bent across the top, his head pillowed on a bent arm, sound asleep.

D’Artagnan smiled fondly. Aramis had vowed to remain by Treville’s side, despite being wounded himself. Porthos had been against the idea, arguing that Aramis was in no condition to sit vigil beside the Captain, until Athos reminded him that even wounded, Aramis was the best choice due to his medical knowledge. The big man had eventually admitted the logic of the argument, but seeing the pained expression on Aramis’ face even in sleep, d’Artagnan wasn’t sure it had been the correct choice. Slowly moving across the room, the young Gascon first checked on the condition of the Captain, pleased to see the man breathing evenly, though still quite pale. 

The surgeon had assured them Treville was settled before he left early this morning, but had taken Athos aside, speaking in a concerned whisper that the older Musketeer had not deemed to share. The surgeon had agreed to return after a few hours of sleep to check on the patient and he was eager to find if the appointment had been kept. While Treville was one of the strongest men d’Artagnan had ever met, the wound was severe and he feared for the captain’s recovery.

Turning to the table, d’Artagnan was surprised to find Aramis watching him with weary eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the younger man said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Aramis waved a hand and gave him a wan smile. “Do not apologize, my friend. I was merely resting my eyes.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but notice those eyes were glazed in pain. “From what I can see, they could use a bit more.”

Aramis’ smile brightened but he didn’t argue the point. He looked behind the younger man. “Athos and Porthos?”

“They went ahead to report to the Palace.” D’Artagnan dropped into the chair opposite and regarded his friend carefully. “How is your head?”

Aramis shrugged. “It aches, but it is nothing I can’t handle.” He let his eyes drift to the unconscious man in the bed. “Unfortunately, I fear the Captain’s condition is much more grave.”

“Did the surgeon return?”

Aramis nodded. “The ball was quite near his spine. There is no telling how much damage it may have done until Treville wakes. It is possible he will not have full use of his legs again.”

D’Artagnan paled at the thought as his gaze shifted to Treville. “I cannot imagine the Captain in such a condition.”

“Nor can I,” Aramis agreed. “But it would make his decision to leave our ranks that much easier to bear.”

D’Artagnan stared at the Spaniard, his eyes wide in shock. “Leave?”

Aramis sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Forgive me, the throbbing in my head causes me to forget myself. I spoke out of turn.”

Unfortunately, it was not within the Gascon’s ability to bury his curiosity. He reached across and caught Aramis’ wrist, forcing the man to meet his gaze. “I give you my word it will go no further.”

Aramis looked at him, resigned. “The King offered Treville an appointment to his cabinet. The Captain would be a fool to refuse.”

D’Artagnan nodded, agreeing with the assessment. “It would be valuable for the King to have someone he could trust to act with honor. France would benefit from Treville’s counsel.”

Aramis’ eyes returned to the captain. “That’s exactly what I told him. Despite how much he would be missed, I would feel better knowing Louis had someone like Treville at his right hand.”

“You mean instead of Mazarin.”

He didn’t miss the cloud of contempt that crossed the Spaniard’s face at the mention of the First Minister.

“Mazarin is no better than Richelieu. In fact, I believe him worse. Despite his manipulation of the King, I at least believed Richelieu had the good of France at the center of his black heart. I fear Mazarin’s motives are far more self-serving.” 

D’Artagnan did not miss the way Aramis spit the Cardinal’s name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I won’t disagree with you, but until we can prove it, there’s not much we can do to keep Mazarin in line.”

“And if we can prove he was involved in this?” Aramis tilted his head toward the bed. “Tell me you found something that would cast light on our assassin.”

D’Artagnan smiled. “As it happens, my friend, we may have found exactly that.” He quickly explained about the ruby they had discovered in the alley and their suspicion of who it belonged to.

“Rochefort?” Aramis said in surprise. “What reason would he have to kill Treville?”

D’Artagnan shook his head and shrugged, sitting back wearily against the chair. It had been a long night and the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him. He could only imagine how Aramis felt. “We will find him,” the younger man pledged, “And when we do, we will force him to give us his accomplices, even if it’s the Cardinal himself.”

They sat in silence for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts. D’Artagnan had almost dozed off when Aramis finally broke the stillness.

“Have I ever told you how I came to be a Musketeer?”

“No.” D’Artagnan shook his head, immediately intrigued. He had often wondered how these three remarkable men had found their way to one another. His fatigue fell away as he looked at Aramis, encouraging him to continue.

“First, you must understand that I never had any intention of becoming a soldier,” Aramis began, his tone light, a faraway look in his eyes. “I was not one to take orders easily. A woman I believed I loved left me and I set out to find her. I told myself it was Isabelle I was searching for, but I now know I was truly searching for myself.

“My search eventually led me here, to Paris, but alas, she was not to be found. After a while, my funds ran low and I had no choice but to abandon my search, my only choice to return home in defeat. My father was gone and I knew Robert – my older brother -- didn’t want me there. Other circumstances made it unsafe, but I had no place else to go.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Treville.” Aramis smiled at the memory. “I was riding through the countryside just south of the city, resigned to returning to Perpignan, when I came upon a group of soldiers practicing with muskets. Treville was just forming the Musketeer regiment and he was looking for men who could shoot somewhat accurately.”

“But you weren’t a soldier?”

“Hardly.” Aramis laughed and looked at d’Artagnan askance. “I didn’t have much discipline and I had never been very good at following directives, especially when I had little to gain from the outcome.” He returned his gaze to the Captain, his voice taking on a softer tone. “The recruits were terrible shots, and as I stood there watching, I couldn’t help myself; I began to laugh at their attempts. Treville didn’t appreciate the stab to his men’s confidence and he asked me – very politely – to be on my way. When I continued to laugh, he challenged me to do better.”

“What did you do?”

“Much better.” Aramis said with a familiar glint in his eye. “When he found I also had some skill with a sword, he offered me a commission within his new detachment. It seemed a more appealing alternative than riding back to Perpignan with my tail between my legs, so I accepted. Paris became my home and the Musketeers my family.”

D’Artagnan smiled, realizing his friend’s story was not so different from his own. “It would seem our good Captain has a weakness for strays, eh?”

“So it would seem.”

Aramis looked across the table, noting the weariness in his young friend’s eyes. “Go, d’Artagnan. Get some rest. You can relieve me in a few hours. I fear that is all the longer I will last and we dare not leave the Captain unattended until we are sure of his recovery.”

D’Artagnan hesitated, knowing the marksman had to be as exhausted as him, if not more so.

“Are you sure? You’re wounded, Aramis I –“

Aramis held up a hand, staying the younger man’s attempt to argue. “I slept last night.”

“You were unconscious. That’s hardly the same thing.”

The older man shrugged. “Be that as it may, I rested. You, on the other hand, stood vigil not only over me, but over the Captain as well. You’ve earned a brief reprieve, my friend. Go. We will be fine.”

D’Artagnan wanted to argue, but he recognized the stubborn set to Aramis’ jaw, and conceded defeat. “Fine.” He pointed a finger at his friend, his brows raised in warning. “But if your head gets worse, or you feel ill, send someone for me. I won’t be far.”

Aramis dipped his head in agreement, placing a hand over his heart. “I give you my word. Now, off to bed.”

“Yes, Father,” d’Artagnan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

With one last look at Treville, he took his leave and headed to his quarters.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

Athos and Porthos stepped into the King’s courtroom and advanced to the dais where both Louis and Anne were enthroned. Louis smiled, pleased to see them, convincing Athos news of the previous evening’s tragedy had not yet reached the Palace. The Queen was speaking with Madame Bonicieux and both women gazed behind them as they approached. Athos felt the absence of the two younger members of their group keenly.

“Ah!” Louis waved a hand, bidding the men forward. “Two of my most loyal and trusted Musketeers. To what do we owe this honor?”

Athos took a deep breath as he bowed, steeling himself for what would come next. This was the part of command he did not envy Treville. The King was not one to take bad news with aplomb. In fact, it was common for Louis to lash out in misplaced anger at those who were no more at fault than he. Treville had learned to let the King’s immature reactions and insinuations roll off his back like water from a fowl, but Athos was not quite as practiced as the Captain and knew he must hold fast his temper lest he make the situation even worse. He felt Porthos take a step closer and silently thanked his friend for his unwavering strength and his tacit support.

“I’m afraid we have unfortunate news, Your Majesty. There was a shooting last evening outside a tavern on Rue des Rosiers. Two Musketeers were wounded by an assassin hiding in the shadows.”

“Oh my,” Louis sat forward, obviously upset at the news. He glanced behind the two men before him and Athos suspected, like the Queen and Constance, he had noted the absence of Aramis and d’Artagnan.

“I pray that neither of your comrades were involved.”

Athos glanced at Constance. “D’Artagnan was not involved. Though Aramis was wounded, he was merely grazed by the shot. He is already up and assured me he was fine.” He could see the Queen relax marginally at the news, though her eyes remained troubled and her hand had clasped Constance’s tightly. 

Athos cleared his throat before continuing, knowing the rest of his report would be the hardest. “Captain Treville was not as fortunate. He was struck in the back and I’m afraid his condition is grave.”

Louis stood immediately. “How could this happen? Treville is a seasoned soldier! This is unacceptable.”

“They were attacked from the shadows without warning,” Porthos explained, stepping up to Athos’ side. “Aramis was able to return fire before he was struck, wounding the assassin, but he managed to get away before we could find ‘im.”

“You allowed him to escape?” Louis looked down on them with disappointment.

“Our first priority was the wounded men, Your Majesty.” Athos swallowed his ire at the rebuke, attempting to subtly defend their actions. “We returned to the scene this morning to examine the area in daylight and we found this.”

He held out his hand, the ruby clasp resting on his palm. 

Louis descended the steps and picked up the ruby, holding it up to the light, examining its facets. “This is a gem of good quality,” he appraised. “It certainly wouldn’t belong to anyone who would frequent a tavern in that area.”

Athos dipped his head in agreement. “Our thoughts exactly, Your Majesty. We believe we know who the ruby belongs to.”

Louis looked up, pleased. “Excellent. Please explain why haven’t you brought him before me?”

Porthos shifted, and the two Musketeers exchanged a glance. “Because we’re not sure where to find ‘im.”

“We believe the ruby belongs to the Comte de Rochefort,” Athos announced. “I recognize it as the gem adorning the clasp to his cloak. But the Comte seems to be absent from his lodgings. His landlord professes to have no indication as to where he might be.” He glanced again at Porthos, a small smile of satisfaction lighting his eyes as he continued. “We were hoping to speak to Cardinal Mazarin. Since the Cardinal so graciously pardoned Rochefort and made him Captain of his Red Guard, we assume he would know his whereabouts.”

“Find Cardinal Mazarin,” Louis ordered one of the guards stationed at the door. “Tell him I must see him at once!”

“No need, Sire. I am at your service as always.”

Mazarin strode into the court, a smug smile on his face as he noticed the presence of the two Musketeers. “Ah, Athos, is it?” He glanced to Porthos. “And I’m afraid your name escapes me. “

“Porthos,” the big man growled.

“Yes, yes, Porthos. It is always a pleasure to hear of the exploits of His Majesty’s finest.” He looked around in a show of confusion. “I would expect Captain Treville to be in attendance.” He feigned an expression of concern. “I do hope the Captain hasn’t taken ill.”

Athos seethed at the insincerity of the Cardinal’s performance, but Louis didn’t seem to notice the ruse. 

“It appears our good Captain has met with an unfortunate incident, Cardinal,” the King informed him. 

Mazarin held a hand to his breast, frowning dramatically. “Oh dear, I do hope it is nothing serious.”

“The Captain and another Musketeer were attacked in the street last evening,” Athos repeated. “Treville’s condition is dire, but, as we all know, the Captain is quite obstinate. He will not go down without a fight.” He watched the Cardinal absorb the news, allowing himself a small grin of satisfaction when the man’s bravado slipped momentarily. It was apparent, he thought Treville already dead, confirming Athos’ theory the Cardinal had been behind the attempt all along.

“Cardinal, where is the Captain of your Red Guard?” Louis demanded.

Mazarin looked to the King in confusion. “I assure you I do not know, Sire. What may I ask is your interest in Rochefort?”

The King smiled haughtily, thrilled to be able to reveal the evidence like it was some kind of game. He opened his hand and thrust it toward the Cardinal’s face. “He seems to have dropped this in the alley of question.”

Mazarin paled as he stared at the ruby, but he quickly regained his composure, and Athos had to wonder if anyone else caught the fear that briefly flared in the man’s dark eyes.

“This is preposterous,” Mazarin laughed, shaking his head. “I can’t believe Rochefort would have anything to do with this. He has sworn his allegiance to you, Sire. If he had not been truthful, I would have never allowed him to be released from the bastille.”

“Why exactly did you have him released?” Porthos asked. “And why make him captain of the guard? The man has admitted to trying to kill you.”

Mazarin spread his hands. “I am a man of God. Forgiveness is one of the divine principles our lives are built on.”

“Forgiveness is one thing,” Athos remarked, “though without prudence it is often foolish.”

Mazarin tipped his head, conceding the point. “In this case, you may be right.” He turned to Louis, the picture of contrite humility. “I shall try to ascertain Rochefort’s location immediately, Sire.” He bowed to the King, throwing Athos a glare and swiftly exited the room, his red cloak billowing behind him.

“I shall send an envoy to the garrison along with Daquin, my personal physician, to oversee Treville’s care. I expect you to turn this city upside down and locate Rochefort so that justice can be served.”

“We will leave no stone unturned,” Athos assured him as he and Porthos bowed.

As soon as they were through the doors of the courtroom, Porthos breathed a sigh of relief. “That went well.” He turned his head, grinning at his friend. “You enjoyed baiting the Cardinal.”

Athos allowed a satisfied smile to lift the corner of his lips. “Was it that obvious?”

Porthos laughed. “Afraid so. Do you really believe Mazarin gave the order to have Treville killed?”

Athos nodded. “I believe the man capable of anything to fulfill his own agenda.”

“Except we have no idea what that agenda is.”

“Perhaps Rochefort will be able to enlighten us.”

“If we can find him.” Porthos didn’t sound as if he believed the feat possible.

Athos was not willing to accept that. “We’ll find him,” he assured his friend. “And when we do, we will not trust Rochefort’s fate to any hands but our own.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“Treville is still alive,” Mazarin growled as Milady slipped into his office from the secret doorway. “You assured me Rochefort could handle this.”

“There were… unforeseen complications,” she explained, knowing she would need to handle the situation delicately, lest it become more volatile than it already was. 

“Complications? What could possibly complicate such a simple directive?” Mazarin lowered his voice as he stalked toward her. “Kill Treville. One shot.”

She stepped back, cautious of his anger. “Treville was not alone. He was with the Queen’s champion, Aramis.” 

Mazarin scowled. “Are you saying Aramis thwarted this attempt?”

Milady knew of the Cardinal’s hatred of the Musketeer and pressed the advantage. “Rochefort’s aim was true. He hit Treville with what should prove a fatal shot. But Aramis was able to return fire before we could make sure. After that, there was no time. The other Musketeers must have heard the shots and came running. We barely escaped detection.”

“Your escape was not as clean as you would like to believe.” Mazarin crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared. “Rochefort’s ruby clasp was found at the scene. They have convinced the King he is the assassin. He is no longer of any use to me. Find him. I want him eliminated before he can cause any more damage.”

“Rochefort will not turn on us.”

Mazarin rose and grabbed her arm, shaking her violently. “He can ruin me. I want him dead!” 

Milady gasped and attempted to pull her arm from his bruising grip. She had been in this position far too many times to count; faced with men believing brute strength was the best means to intimidate her. Those men most often regretted taking that path. Unable to break his hold, she forced herself to stop struggling, She swallowed the pain and leveled a cold gaze at the man. “There is a way to salvage this plan,” she told him. “Rochefort’s death can work to our advantage.”

Mazarin grinned and ran his other hand down her cheek. She shivered at his touch. “Your scheming mind is one of the many things I adore about you, Milady. But do not think my affections are so absolute that I would hesitate to mourn your death should you disappoint me again.”

She swallowed, seeing the truth in his eyes. This was no idle threat. This was a warning. “I understand, Your Eminence. But my plan is flawless. Whether it succeeds or fails, one or another of our problems will be eliminated.”

Mazarin stared at her for a moment before releasing her and returning to his seat. When once again his gaze fell upon her, his calm façade was restored. He turned his dark eyes on her and smiled malevolently. “I pray for your sake, Milady, you are right.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis felt the hand in his hair, moving slowly, softly, sensually… he smiled. It had always been one of his favorite comforts, having his mother run her fingers through his curls. It had made him feel loved, cared for. Even now he found it comforting when women ran their hands through it – and it seemed so many desired to do so – always making him close his eyes and smile, taking him back to the days when he was a child and he was curled up safe in his mother’s arms.

It had been quite some time since he’d felt such a sensation and he relished it, not wanting it to end. He knew it was simply a dream. He would wake up and he would be alone, the closeness he imagined would be gone and he would once again be left to contemplate a life without the woman he loved. 

How he longed to hold her, feel her skin against his, bask in the glow of her smile… the dream was so real, he could smell her perfume. He took a deep breath, the familiar scent of roses filling his lungs…

He opened his eyes, surprised to see the smiling face of his dreams hovering before him.

“Your Majesty!” He jumped up from the chair, his recent injury quickly and cruelly making its displeasure known. The world tilted precariously as the dull ache behind his eyes flared, and he swayed, reaching out and finding purchase with his hand in an effort to keep his balance. Moments later, when the room once again righted itself, he blinked the spots from his vision to find himself caught in the arms of the Queen.

Anne smiled as his eyes gradually focused on her face. “That was not exactly the greeting I’d envisioned.”

He managed to untangle himself and step back. His knees felt weak and he swallowed hard, praying not to embarrass himself in her presence. “My apologies, you caught me unaware.”

She allowed him space, but kept her hands on his arms. “Athos informed me of your injury.” Her green eyes traced the gash at his temple while a hand moved up to brush back the dark curls. “I was worried for you.” Her voice was as soft as her touch and Aramis found himself leaning closer to her warmth.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he whispered, his tone contradicting his words. “It is not safe…”

“I could not stay away.”

“You must. For your sake and the baby’s. You were right to push me away –“

“No.” 

He raised his head and looked at her with surprise. The raw emotion she showed him made his heart ache with sympathy for her. 

“When the Dauphin was taken, I was so frightened, I prayed for your presence to comfort me, to find him and make sure he was safe.”

“And I was not there.”

“That was not entirely your fault,” she said, her voice dripping with guilt. “I believed it would be better for you if you could distance yourself from us. I convinced myself I was acting from kindness, that if you were no longer right in front of me, I could learn to live without you.”

Aramis smiled sadly. “A wise consideration.”

Anne shook her head. “No. I was foolish.” She glanced at Treville, but he was still sleeping soundly. “I was afraid, Aramis,” she confessed, her voice a whisper. “Afraid for myself, our child.” She turned back to him and laid a hand on his arm. “I was afraid for you. I couldn’t fathom what I would do if anything were to happen to you. But then you were gone… and I… I realized how much I needed you here. It’s selfish of me, I know –“

“No. I came to the same conclusion.” He reached down and took her hand in both of his. “Even if I can only watch the two of you from afar, I can at least see you, serve you, and know that I will always stand between you and anything or anyone who may wish to do you harm.”

Anne blushed. “My champion.”

Aramis raised her hand and kissed it softly, letting his lips linger on her perfumed skin.

“But you still should not have come. We need to remain cautious. Mazarin may not be able to prove anything, but if he suspects, he can make things difficult for you.”

“I am here at the request of the King,” she assured him. “He is very worried about Captain Treville. He bade me to come and ensure he is getting the very best of care. I can see he is in capable hands.”

Aramis placed a hand over his heart and smiled in acceptance of the compliment.

Anne turned toward Treville, still lying quietly in the small bed, his breathing even and regular. “How is he?”

Aramis sighed and bent down, careful not to move too quickly in deference to the ache throbbing behind his eyes as well as his still questionable equilibrium. He pulled the coarse blanket higher on the Captain’s chest before responding. “He is still fighting. His breathing is easier and his heart is stronger, but he has yet to wake, and I’m afraid we will not know the extent of the damage until he does.”

Anne stepped up beside him and wrapped her hands around his arm. “Captain Treville is one of the few people who has always treated me with true kindness and dignity. I cannot imagine how empty it would be without him.”

“The Captain is the strongest man I have ever known,” Aramis assured her. He placed his free hand on hers and smiled as she leaned in close, laying her head against his shoulder. “I don’t believe he would leave us unless there was no other choice.”

“Louis is counting on his counsel. Since Cardinal Richelieu’s death, the King has been in dire need of someone who can advise him with honor and integrity. I prayed it would be Captain Treville.”

“The Captain told me of the King’s offer. I believe he had already decided to accept it. Was it your influence that brought about this offer?”

Anne raised her head and smiled. “Sometimes the King does listen to his humble wife.” 

Aramis returned her smile with a rakish one of his own. “You are many things, Your Majesty, but humble is not one of them.”

Anne blushed at the open affection in his voice and pressed closer to his side. Her smile faded as her eyes fell upon the wounded man once again. “He must pull through, Aramis. I fear what may happen if Cardinal Mazarin is able to find his way into Louis’ trust.”

“Mazarin will not be threat for much longer.”

Anne stepped back at the hatred in his voice. “Please, Aramis, promise me you will not do anything rash.”

He sighed and reached around her, pulling her close. “On my honor, I will not harm the man. But he will pay for all he has done. Athos believes Mazarin is responsible for this. I do not doubt his word.”

“But I thought it was the Comte de Rochefort they were searching for.”

“Rochefort is but a pawn in Mazarin’s game. We will find Rochefort and, in turn, prove his connection to the Cardinal. Whatever he thinks he knows will be of no use to him once his true motives are made clear to the King.”

A moan from the bed caught their attention and Aramis leaned close, watching as Treville’s eyes moved behind his closed lids. He turned and smiled at Anne. “I believe our good Captain is beginning to find his way back to us.” He squeezed her hand then moved away, motioning her to take the chair he had previously occupied. “I believe your face would be much more welcome than mine when he opens his eyes.”

Anne laughed and perched on the edge of the chair gracefully. She folded her hands on her lap, and watched as Aramis crossed the room and sat in the other chair near the table. He longed to remain near her but knew it would not be proper for the Captain to find them together. The Queen’s concern for her long-time friend would be understood, and Aramis couldn’t completely suppress a flare of jealousy that she could show her worry for Treville so openly without fear of reprisal, and they were forced to hide their love behind duty and service. But he found he could not condemn the Captain for his devotion to the young Queen, knowing how much it had meant to Anne when so few in France had shown her courtesy due to her place of birth. 

He smiled at her encouragingly as they both watched and waited for their friend to awaken.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Despite the darkness of the room, Milady knew immediately Rochefort was awake. Sounds of the revelers below at the Inn wafted up, as did the pungent smell of ale, wine and unwashed bodies. It was an unpleasant odor and she steeled herself for the complaints she was sure the former Comte had been rehearsing all afternoon.

“I trust the Cardinal was pleased Treville is dead?”

She turned toward the voice in the shadows and smiled. “He was,” she lied. “He was also concerned when I told him you’d been wounded in the course of performing your duties.”

Rochefort huffed a laugh. “I’m sure he was quite anxious about my health.”

Milady crossed the room by the scant light and perched upon the same chair she had occupied earlier in the day. “You sell the Cardinal short, my dear Comte. When I told him of your unfortunate fate, he was most troubled.”

“That I wouldn’t survive?” Rochefort asked. “Or that I would?”

“Come now, we have much work to do.”

Rochefort sat forward on the small cot, his eyes glittering as a stream of light caught them, the blue orbs glowing like ice. “If Treville is dead, what more could the Cardinal need of my talents?”

She shifted in her chair nervously. This man made her nervous. She could sense the rage hiding just beneath the calm veneer and it made her skin crawl. It was nothing like what she had felt – still felt – for her husband. Though she had seen the Comte de le Fere as a means to an end, she had felt a wanton attraction from the moment they’d met. It was an irresistible force she still felt whenever he was near, though now it had turned to something dark and raw. She would revel seeing him in pain by her hand as much as she did those hands gliding over her pale skin. She had loved him – as much as she was capable of the emotion – but he had turned that love into something vengeful. She would enjoy watching him die just as much as she enjoyed the life he’d awakened in her once.

But this man was nothing like her husband. This man’s soul was as tarnished and menacing as hers. It should have made them a perfect match, but she found herself repulsed by him, wanting to stay as far from him as she possibly could. He was useful to her so far as he still believed their desires coincided, but she had no designs to associate with him on any level other than the one they currently inhabited.

She likened Rochefort to a snake; cold, slithery, deadly. But she was a mongoose, and she had no reason to fear him. She would use him to her own end, and if it resulted in his, so much the better.

“Your new assignment is one I believe will please you greatly.”

Rochefort tilted his head in interest. “Do tell, Milady.”

She cringed at the way he said her name, but swallowed her distaste, giving him a seductive smile. “You are to kill Treville’s replacement. Athos.”

Rochefort’s brows rose in pleasant surprise. “A fortuitous task.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“Does the Cardinal expect me again to perform this undertaking from the cover of shadows?”

“He would prefer you remain undetected,” she responded carefully. “For his sake as well as your own.”

Rochefort rose slowly from the cot. His arm was still encased in the sling the physician had fashioned from a moth eaten piece of cloth, but he squared his shoulders, his eyes narrowed as he returned her gaze. “I will not hide. If Mazarin wants me to kill Le Fere, I will do it so that he knows exactly who strikes him down.”

She turned her head from the light, her smile of content hidden by the shadows. 

“The Cardinal will not agree.” She rose from the chair and closed the distance between them. She raised her eyes, carefully masking the satisfaction his arrogance brought about in her. “But I understand your need to show Athos who is the better man.”

He nodded, his lip raised in a sneer. “There shall be no question of that.”

“No, I suppose not.” Milady turned and crossed the room, pausing with her hand on the door. “I will have Athos at the Carmes Déchaux at midnight. Do you know of it?” She had been assured the barren fields surrounding the ancient convent were often used for the rencontres of men who had little time to lose.

“I do,” Rochefort confirmed.

“Good. You will have your chance then.” She looked with concern at his bound arm. “Are you confident of your abilities, Comte? Athos is quite capable.”

Rochefort snorted a derisive laugh. “I trained with him long ago and have first hand knowledge of Athos’ skill. I am not the same man he knew. I will best him.”

Milady nodded her acceptance and opened the door. He called her name as she crossed the threshold and she turned, watching patiently as he stepped into the narrow beam of light.

“My condolences, Comtesse. For tonight you shall become a widow.”

Milady smiled and graced him with a tip of her head, stepped through the door and firmly closed it behind her. She had no illusions that Rochefort could best her husband, though the thought of him landing a fortuitous blow was not beyond the realm of possibility. No matter the result. One of her problems would certainly be out of the way – perhaps both. Dueling was illegal. All she had to do was make sure Athos arrived at the intended location at midnight. Rochefort would be waiting, and knowing her husband as she did, she was certain he would not back down from the direct challenge. A few well intentioned Red Guard’s to witness their newly appointed captain’s fall, and the mighty Musketeer would face the King’s wrath.

It was a perfect plan.

Now to make sure all the players were in place.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

D’Artagnan stepped out onto the balcony with a wide yawn, stretching his arms above his head. He’d only been able to sleep a few hours, the everyday noise and activity of the garrison proving quite unfavorable for genuine rest. He did feel better, though; less muddled, more alert, and that was enough for now. His eyes roamed the courtyard, taking in the men sparring just past the barracks and the recruits on stable duty, busily mucking the stalls while the horses tethered to the posts outside munched on hay and oats. His eyes stopped at the lone figure -- completely out of place in such a raw environment -- calmly sitting on the bench outside the sick room Captain Treville currently occupied.

Constance was leaning back against the wall, her hands in her lap, pale against the dark cloak folded primly across her dress. Her eyes were closed, as if asleep, and d’Artagnan felt his heart beat faster at the peaceful smile on her lips. Looking past the archway, D’Artagnan could see the rear end of the royal coach as it sat just outside the garrison gate. As he made his way down the stairs, he idly wondered how long ago the coach had arrived and surprised he’d slept through the appearance of a member of the royal household. He assumed it was the Queen who’d come since there would be little reason for Constance to be here if she were not.

D’Artagnan sighed, wishing there was still a reason for her to visit the garrison as she used to when they…

That was the past, he chided himself. Things were no longer as such between them. Constance had chosen her husband, and despite every inclination in his body, he had promised to abide by that decision. Whether he liked it or not.

“Madame Bonicieux,” he greeted as he approached the woman. He had tried to make his footsteps as loud as possible to signal his arrival, but she still jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Oh! D’Artagnan! I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep.”

He smiled and bowed courteously. “It is I who must apologize for disturbing you. May I ask what brings you here?”

Frowning at his stiffness, she waved a hand at him as she let her head drop back against the wall wearily. “Oh, sit down, will you? I get enough formality at the Palace. I don’t want to have to deal with it here amongst friends.”

He raised his brows but dropped down beside her on the bench. “Are we?” he asked quietly. “Friends?”

“I’d like to be.”

He allowed a sliver of hope to rise. “As would I. I’ve missed you.”

Constance smiled and tilted her head toward him. “I know it’s been… difficult… for me, too. Every day I ask myself if I made the right decision.”

D’Artagnan lowered his head, afraid to pose the question running through his mind. “And? Do you ever find your answer?”

She was quiet for a few moments, her eyes on her hands, still in her lap. “I can’t leave him, d’Artagnan,” she finally whispered. “No matter how much I long to.”

The young Musketeer nodded, sighing in disappointment. “I understand. I don’t like it, but…” he took her hand and squeezed it, smiling when she grasped his in return. “I do understand.”

“Thank you.”

The awkward silence returned and he released her hand, immediately missing the warmth of her skin. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her, roughly clearing the emotion from his throat. “What brings you to the garrison?”

“The Queen. She wanted to check on the condition of Captain Treville.”

D’Artagnan looked toward the closed door of the sickroom. “She’s in there now?”

Constance looked away. “With Aramis.” She had started to pull at her fingers, a nervous habit d’Artagnan had noticed from the time he had rented the room in the Bonicieux house. 

D’Artagnan nodded. The King and Queen were both fond of Treville, that was well known, and it did not surprise him Her Majesty would make the journey to see for herself that the Captain still lived. But he had never known Constance to be so close to the man to display this level of anxiety, and could not understand the concern that showed so openly on her face or the distress she was exhibiting now.

“The Captain is a strong man,” he assured her, assuming her unease was also for Treville’s condition. “We have every reason to believe he will pull through this.”

Constance nodded as she continued to pick at her hands.

“But that isn’t what you’re worried about, is it?”

Constance rolled her eyes. “I just want them to be more careful!” she said in a low whisper, her eyes darting around the courtyard. “It’s much too dangerous for them to be together like this.”

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes at her words, confused. Why would the Queen visiting Treville’s sick bed be considered dangerous? There was no reason for anyone to consider her calling on him anything other than concern from a worried friend. There was no impropriety there. Why they weren’t even alone, Aramis was –

Aramis! D’Artagnan hitched a breath as things began to fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Aramis’ moods… his preoccupation with the Dauphin…the way his eyes searched whenever they’d been at the Palace… It had been going on since the time they rescued the Queen at the convent. Where she’d spent time alone with…

No. He shook his head as his thoughts began to run rampant. No. It wasn’t possible. Not even Aramis would be that stupid. And Athos had been there…

D’Artagnan quickly added the stern looks he’d seen the older man throw Aramis’ way, as if scolding him for his behavior without saying a word aloud. How he’d managed to keep Aramis from guard duty at the Palace near the birth of the Dauphin. How he still kept a close eye on the man whenever they were in the company of the royal couple. The look on the marksman’s face when he’d finally returned from the East wing…. Even Porthos had tried to skirt around it right before Aramis had resigned his commission and left Paris. They had all known – even Constance – though he was sure it must have been the Queen who’d take her into her confidence.

He sat back with a look of shock on his face. So that’s what they’ve been keeping from him all this time. Aramis and the Queen? It was so ridiculous, but so… Aramis… he knew he’d finally hit upon the secret his friends had been harboring. 

Didn’t they trust him enough to let him know? Did they not believe he was honorable enough to keep their confidence? No. It wasn’t that. He knew them and he knew it had nothing to do with trust. It was… he had no idea what it was, but he knew they had kept it from him for a reason that had nothing to do with their faith in his loyalty to them. 

He probably should be angry, but he found he wasn’t. This was not a secret that could be entrusted to just anyone. But now that he knew, what did he do with it? If what he thought had happened truly did happen, Aramis was guilty of treason and could be hanged. He knew the man and despite his reputation, d’Artagnan was convinced that if he had bedded the Queen, it was out of love, not conquest. It may have been a mistake, but it had surely been one made of affection.

And how could he condemn the man when his own deepest desire was to follow his own heart to the same path?

He noticed Constance looking at him in horror, realizing he hadn’t known. He quickly smiled to cover his sudden revelation. “It’s fine. There’s no one here that could be a threat. It’s safe.”

Constance let a stream of breath flow from her lungs, obviously relieved at his reassurance.

“I know you’re right. I’m just frightened for her. For both of them.”

D’Artagnan took her hand again and squeezed it reassuringly. “We’ll make sure nothing happens. Trust me.”

“I do.”

Another carriage pulled up under the archway and d’Artagnan dropped her hand, standing and striding purposefully toward the coach. He waited while a small man stepped to the ground, his round face squinting up at the much taller Musketeer.

“I am Daquin,” he announced with the air of someone who normally does not need to be introduced. “I am the personal physician of the King, He has bade me to examine your Captain. Where might I find the patient?”

Before d’Artagnan could respond, the door to Treville’s room opened and Aramis strode out, a smile of welcome on his face. “Daquin,” he called. He crossed the courtyard, his hand extended to the diminutive doctor. “It is good to see you again.”

Daquin took his hand, his eyes assessing the younger man. He pulled Aramis’ arm, forcing him to stoop so that the wound on his temple was level with the physician’s eyes. “I believe you promised to take better care of yourself the last time we spoke.”

Aramis huffed a laugh. “Unfortunately, the man who shot me from the shadows was unaware of our agreement.” He stood and motioned toward the door he’d just exited. “I’m fine, just a slight headache. Your real patient is right this way.” He ushered the smaller man to the room, noticing Constance still seated on the bench outside. He turned to d’Artagnan, a look of reproval on his face.

“D’Artagnan, have you learned nothing of how to entertain such a beautiful guest to our humble garrison?” He turned to Constance and smiled charmingly. “My apologies, Madame. I’m sure d’Artagnan will remember his manners shortly and retrieve something cool and sweet for you to drink.” 

“Thank you,” Constance said with a grin. She looked at d’Artagnan, her brows dancing merrily. “That would be lovely.” 

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, Aramis turned and winked at him, then followed the doctor into the room, closing the door behind him.

The young Gascon stood there awkwardly for a moment until the muffled sound of giggling reaching his ears. He slowly shifted his gaze from the closed door to Constance, his brows rising at the look of mirth alighting her face.

“He is very charming,” she grinned.

D’Artagnan frowned. “Very,” he growled. With a flair worthy of Aramis himself, he bowed gallantly to Constance. “May I interest you in a cool beverage, Madame?” He held out a hand, which she took with a smile.

“You may, Monsieur.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis said his goodbyes to Daquin, promising the man he would rest and send word if he was needed before his scheduled return the next day. As the coach pulled away through the arch, Aramis ran a hand through his hair and allowed his shoulders to slump in exhaustion. He turned and trudged to the table where his three comrades were waiting.

As he dropped onto the wooden bench next to Porthos, the big man placed a cup in front of him and d’Artagnan filled it with dark wine.

“Drink,” Athos intoned. “You look as if you could use it.”

He lifted the cup and drank deeply, hoping the alcohol would dull the pounding in his head as well as the ache in his heart. He knew his friends were impatient to hear Daquin’s prognosis, but they held their questions, allowing him a moment to collect himself, and he was eternally grateful for their fortitude. As soon as he’d quenched his thirst, he pushed the cup aside and leaned forward, laying his forehead on his crossed arms.

“You look done in,” Porthos hand fell upon the back of his neck and squeezed gently. 

He snorted a laugh into the tabletop. “I don’t think I’ve been this weary since that three day leave we had two summers ago.”

Porthos chuckled in remembrance of their rather zealous celebration of his birthday. “After two straight days of drinkin’, your head ached for an entirely different reason.”

Aramis raised said head and smiled. “At least that pain was preceded by a good time.” 

“What did the physician say?” d’Artagnan asked, unable to quell his curiosity any longer.

Aramis sighed. “There is, I’m afraid, good news and bad news.”

“I hate it when that happens,” Porthos mumbled.

“As do I, my friend,” Aramis responded sympathetically. “The Captain woke, but he did not feel much pain.” He waited, letting the brief statement sink in.

“He could not feel his legs,” Athos surmised.

Aramis shook his head. “No. But Daquin is convinced the damage is not as severe as first believed. There is still swelling near the wound, and he believes as the swelling diminishes, the feeling will return.”

“And you agree with this prognosis?”

Aramis paused, thoughtful, then nodded in answer to Athos question. “Daquin is a good healer. He would not make such a statement if he did not truly believe it.”

“What if he’s wrong?” d’Artagnan asked.

Aramis sighed. “We shall deal with that if the need arises, but for now, we must continue to pray the Captain will recover. In the meantime, he must remain quiet and still so as not to further the damage.” He lay his head back down and closed his eyes, hoping the absence of the low light cast by the setting sun would ease the incessant ache.

“That’s not goin’ to be easy,” Porthos stated. “Treville isn’t one to lay about doin’ nothing when there’s work to be done. We’re goin’ to have to watch him closely.”

Athos agreed. “The Captain pulled me from my private Hell. I would be privileged to return the favor.”

“Treville was responsible for you joining the Musketeers, too?” d’Artagnan inquired.

Aramis chuckled at the raw curiosity in the young man’s voice. D’Artagnan was eager to learn all he could and they had not exactly been forthcoming concerning their own past lives. He prodded them from time to time, a willing audience, devouring the stories they told with reverie and awe. He heard Athos pour more wine into a cup and felt the table shift as he leaned his weight against it. 

“I was drunk. I had just arrived in Paris after leaving Le Fere and was foolish enough not to hide the weight of my purse. Two men tried to relieve me of it and I… dissuaded them.”

“You pulled a sword on ‘em,” Porthos clarified.

“Yes,” Athos agreed dryly, “I didn’t think they were the type to be reasoned with. It wasn’t much of a fight, and when they’d run away like the cowards they were, I found Captain Treville leaning against the tavern door simply watching. I paid him no mind until I passed him and he asked me if I was as good sober as I was inebriated. He told me the Musketeers had just lost a large number of men…” 

Athos paused and Aramis couldn’t help the shudder that went through his body at the mention of the loss he’d experience first hand at Savoy. Porthos’ warm hand returned to his neck, kneading gently, as Athos continued. “He said if I was interested in something other than drinking myself to death, to come to the garrison and talk to him.”

“And you did?” d’Artagnan pressured.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “I guess so.” 

Aramis groaned, relaxing as the magic of Porthos touch began to soothe his aches. He felt the vibration of Porthos rumbling chuckle down the length of the big man’s arm. He was surprised at how much Athos had revealed in response to d’Artagnan’s inquiry. The man rarely opened up like this and despite the circumstances, it was nice to know he felt comfortable enough to disclose this small part of himself to them. 

D’Artagnan wasn’t finished, though. “What about you?” 

Knowing he’d already related his story to the younger man earlier, Aramis assumed he’d turned his attention to Porthos. As long as the big man’s hand continued its current ministrations on his neck and shoulders, Aramis was content to allow the Gascon’s as many questions as he liked. 

“It seems Treville was responsible for both Athos and Aramis joining the regiment,” d’Artagnan continued. “Did you have a similar encounter with the Captain?”

Porthos’ voice was soft and low – probably in deference to Aramis’ head – and the marksman sighed as he relaxed further under Porthos’ touch. “I was in the regular army. Fighting in the battle at La Rochelle. Treville’s regiment was pinned back, and it was obvious they were far too outnumbered, so I lent a hand. Afterwards he found me, shook my hand and offered me a commission. I’d never even dreamed of becoming a Musketeer, but Treville said he didn’t care where I’d come from or the color of my skin. He needed good fighters and loyal soldiers.”

“So you were here before Athos?”

“Aramis was the first, then me, then Athos right after Savoy. For some reason, we took to this one.” Porthos shook Aramis’ neck gently, and the marksman couldn’t help but smile. Aramis could feel his friend’s eyes upon him and had no need to open his own to know the fondness in the gaze. “Maybe we were trying to fight our own demons by helping him deal with his. Treville noticed the three of us gettin’ along and started assigning us missions together.”

“It was Treville who gave us the name ‘The Inseparables,” Athos finished. “He saw something in each of us that we couldn’t see in ourselves.” There was a comfortable silence, and d’Artagnan seemed satisfied with the results of his inquiries. 

“Is he asleep?” 

“Good as,” Porthos answered, a grin in his voice. Aramis wanted to speak up and dispel that notion, but he found he was far too comfortable, and Porthos’ gentle massage was much more preferable to the effort of denial. 

The sounds of footsteps came near and Aramis heard a rustle of paper as the guard on duty – Michel, he recognized the voice – said something about a message. Frankly Aramis wasn’t really paying much attention, though the alarm in Athos’ voice and sudden stay in Porthos’ touch replaced his feeling of relaxation with trepidation. 

He opened his eyes and lifted his head to see Athos glance at a folded piece of parchment. The older man’s eyes narrowed as he looked back to Michel.

“Who delivered this?”

“Just a boy,” the guard shrugged. “He said he was paid to make sure it was delivered to you and then scuttled back into the night before we could ask him anything more.”

Athos thanked him and turned his attention back to the letter, leaning toward the fading sunlight. He scanned it again quickly then read it aloud. 

“I can give you what you seek. The Carmes Déchaux. Midnight. Come alone.”

“What you seek?” Porthos frowned. “The only thing we seek is Rochefort.”

“Perhaps that is what we will find at the convent.” The Carmes Déchaux was a location familiar to them all, having fought duels in the abandoned fields near the old stone building. It was close enough to the city to be convenient, yet remote enough that no one would note suspicious activity or report the clash of steel or occasional pistol fire. It was a perfect place to duel.

“You think Rochefort sent it?” Aramis was suddenly fully awake, the magic of Porthos’ hands erased by the invasion of reality. “He has to know we’re looking for him by now.”

Athos shook his head, his tone flat, his face a mask of indifference. “I recognize the handwriting. I had many notes professing undying love written in the same script.” 

“Milady?” 

Athos sighed in response to d’Artagnan’s question. “It would seem my wife is involved in yet another plot of the Cardinal’s”

“What do you want to do?” Porthos asked, resigned. His hand fell away and Aramis did his best to repress the shiver the loss incurred. The pounding in his head returned with a vengeance.

“I will accept her invitation.”

“Not alone,” Porthos growled. “There’s no tellin’ what that devil could be plannin’.”

Aramis nudged his friend, silently reminding him with a raised brow that the devil in question had once been Athos’ wife.

“Sorry,” Porthos said contritely.

Athos snorted a laugh. “No need, my friend. You aren’t far off in your description.” He took a deep breath and released it, the sigh seeming to come all the way from his toes. “We have a few hours, I suggest we all get some rest.” 

The look he directed at Aramis was unmistakable and the marksman stared back pointedly. There was no denying he was not fully fit, but he was not going to be left out of this fight no matter how much Athos wanted him to stay back. Milady had taken too much from them and if this was another attempt to break them, he would proudly stand by his brothers’ sides no matter the cost. After a moment, Athos dipped his head in acquiescence. “There is little doubt Milady means to harm us, so we will have to be vigilant. Whatever she has planned, we’ll be ready.”

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

The Carmes Déchaux was an ancient stone building, devoid of windows, that sat in the middle of acres of barren fields. A half moon hung in a cloudless sky, bathing the desolate area in a faint silver light. Athos approached the building, knowing his comrades were on the far side, hidden behind the structure in the shadows. Whatever Milady had planned, it was most probably a trap, but Athos found himself harboring a sliver of hope that she truly wanted to help, that she truly desired to make amends for all she had done.

But that would never bring Thomas back. And it would never make him forget her duplicity in the treachery of Cardinal Richelieu nor her continued deceit under Mazarin’s orders. If she did indeed have information on Rochefort’s whereabouts, she was most likely in league with the man’s attempt on Treville’s life. Athos could overlook her vengeance on him – he had earned her retribution – but he would not allow her hatred for him to touch the people he considered family.

Never again.

The sound of dead grass crunching beneath slow footsteps caught his attention, and he peered through the darkness as a figure approached. The moonlight lit the field in an eerie glow, glinting off a drawn sword, highlighting the fair hair of the man as he stopped a short distance from the Musketeer.

“Rochefort,” Athos had no trouble recognizing the man before him despite the low illumination.

“La Fere,” Rochefort’s voice was calm, yet filled with disdain. “Or would you prefer Athos?”

“Either will suffice. Both wield the sword that will be the cause of your demise.”

Rochefort laughed. “As I told you before, I’m not the same man you knew as a child.”

Athos slowly drew his sword from the scabbard and pulled his main gauche from the casing at his back. “Neither am I.”

With a roar, Rochefort charged, lunging toward Athos who sidestepped gracefully, reached out with his left hand and parried the stroke with his dagger. Spinning to keep his opponent in front of him, Athos circled, his rapier held before him, his main gauche lowered and ready. 

“Why Treville?” Athos asked, his eyes alert as Rochefort recovered and brought his sword to bear. “The Captain has never harmed you.”

“Believe me, I would have selected a much different target.”

Athos smiled coldly. “So you are taking your orders from the Cardinal. Apparently your loyalty to Richelieu was as fleeting as your love for your brother.”

As expected, Rochefort lunged again, angered by the accusation. Athos parried easily, his movements controlled, elegant in execution. His grin widened at Rochefort’s anger. Perhaps the man wasn’t quite as changed as he would like to believe.

“My brother was weak,” Rochefort sneered. “He was more interested in playing with the horses than running an estate. He would have been the ruin of our God given legacy.” 

“Frederick was a good man. It is you who have tainted your family’s name.”

Rochefort snorted a laugh. “I have made the name Rochefort renown throughout France.”

Athos shook his head. “You are nothing but the Cardinal’s minion. And you have aligned yourself with those who would serve you up for their own purposes.”

Rochefort feinted, then thrust and the swords clashed in battle, sparks flying from the steel, bright in the dark of night. Athos’ parry-riposte caused Rochefort to retreat and the Musketeer pressed his advantage. As the smaller man desperately tried to twist away from the Musketeer’s blade, he stepped to the side, leaving himself open and Athos reached out with his main gauche and twisted the rapier from his opponent’s grip. Following the sword, Rochefort charged forward straight into the line of Athos rapier, impaling himself on the shiny blade. 

For a moment all was still, save the sound of Athos’ harsh breathing. Rochefort suddenly gasped, and Athos pulled his blade free, stepping back as Rochefort fell to his knees, his eyes wide, a dark stain growing on the front of his doublet. He looked down, raising a hand to the wound, dark blood spilling over his fingers.

“You should have never come to Paris.” Athos voice held no reproach. “Frederick will finally have his justice.”

“Frederick is dead,” Rochefort gasped. “The dead know no justice.”

“You are about to find out.” 

Rochefort slowly raised his head, his mouth opening to respond, but whatever he intended to say was lost as his body toppled to the ground, dead.

“Stay where you are!”

Athos pivoted, bringing his sword up at the unexpected voice from the other end of the field. Five men approached on horseback, and he recognized the uniforms of the Red Guard. As they closed the distance, familiar steps came up behind him and he relaxed, recognizing the trusted presence of his brothers. Porthos and d’Artagnan flanked Aramis, who was moving without his usual grace, but Athos had no doubt that even in his weakened condition, the marksman would have little problem with these opponents should they chose to engage.

“Drop your weapons,” one of the guards ordered, dropping down from his mount. “You are under arrest for dueling by order of the King.”

“We are Musketeers,” Athos drawled. “We were apprehending a criminal – by order of the King.”

The guard frowned and stepped closer, holding his sword at the ready. He peered at the body directly behind Athos, his eyes widening as he recognized their former Captain.

“That is Captain Rochefort!” He raised his sword. “You’ve killed the Captain of the Red Guard!” The mounted soldiers raised pistols and swords, their aim deadly at the short distance.

Athos felt his comrades shift tensely at his side and held up a hand to stay their advance, hoping to avoid any more bloodshed. “I killed the man responsible for the assassination attempt on Captain Treville. Rochefort was a fugitive. The Cardinal will corroborate this.”

The guard hesitated, unsure whether to believe him or not.

“I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers.” Athos sheathed his sword and took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders and looked with authority on the assembled soldiers. “Go. Confirm what I have told you with Cardinal Mazarin. If he disputes anything I have told you, he knows where to find me.”

After a moment, the guard nodded and motioned for his men to lower their weapons. With one last look at Rochefort’s body, he mounted his horse and they turned and headed back across the field to the far side of the convent.

“We could’ve taken ‘em,” Porthos growled.

“I’ve no doubt,” Athos assured him. “But I believe they were duped into coming here to witness a duel by the same person who lured both Rochefort and I.”

“Milady,” d’Artagnan said with disgust.

Athos nodded. “She will not like that her plan failed.”

“Which means she’ll try again.” Aramis pointed out.

Athos smiled. “I’m counting on it.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis leaned over Rochefort’s body, his fingers on his neck, searching for any sign of life. Finding nothing, he raised his head to Athos and shook it slowly.

Athos took a deep breath and nodded, acknowledging his friend’s silent pronouncement.

As Porthos leaned down and grasped Aramis’ arm, helping the Spaniard to his feet, d’Artagnan stepped forward, his hand on Athos’ shoulder.

“It was a fair fight,” he consoled. “You had no choice.”

“We all have choices, d’Artagnan. But in this case, it’s entirely possible I didn’t want one.”

Athos knew he sounded callous, but he felt no remorse. He could feel nothing more than satisfaction that the man was dead. The coldness of his own response made him shiver, but he couldn’t find it in himself to mourn the man’s passing. Rochefort had made a pact with the devil. It was fitting he should die by the sword.

“I’ll get the horses,” d’Artagnan offered. 

Athos nodded, avoiding the young man’s eyes. He didn’t know if they carried any reproach, but he found he didn’t really care. Rochefort had made his choice long ago – the moment he had killed his own brother. Athos would’ve done anything to save Thomas, how Rochefort could’ve thought Fredierick of such little value was something he would never understand. The path he’d chosen could only lead to one end, and Athos had no regrets being the means to that end.

“Are you all right?”

Athos looked up into the concerned eyes of Aramis. Porthos hovered behind the marksman’s shoulder, his own eyes searching Athos’ face for any sign of distress.

“I am unharmed.”

“That wasn’t the question.” 

Athos rolled his eyes and sighed. He knew the man meant well, it was simply in his nature to nurture others. He looked at Aramis squarely. “I’m fine.”

Aramis narrowed his eyes, assessing for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Good.” He stepped back, forcing Porthos to give Athos some room. Looking down at Rochefort, the marksman placed both hands on his hips and tilted his head. “I don’t suppose he gave up the Cardinal?”

Athos shook his head and sighed. “Not in so many words. But he didn’t deny working for him.”

“Too bad he wasn’t smart enough to know he was dealing with the devil.”

“Are you speaking of Mazarin or Milady?”

At Athos wry question, Porthos snorted a laugh. “Perhaps it’s an apt description of both.” He looked up toward the convent standing ominously in the moonlight. “I wonder what’s keeping d’Artagnan and those horses?”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan breathed deeply as he sprinted to the corner of the convent, his mind on his mentor’s blank expression. He hadn’t expected Athos to be upset about having to kill Rochefort – after all, it was the man’s choice to confront the Musketeer and it seemed to be a fight many years past due. But he still shuddered at the emptiness in Athos’ voice 

“It’s entirely possible I didn’t want one.”

No, d’Artagnan supposed he hadn’t wanted a choice. Rochefort had made his disdain for his childhood rival obvious. And knowing the man had been instrumental in wounding Captain Treville made him a target for their vengeance. Despite what he’d said, d’Artagnan knew Athos had had no choice. Rochefort had escaped punishment once due to Mazarin’s intervention, it could not have been allowed to happen again. 

D’Artagnan didn’t necessarily condone death as punishment, but since leaving Gascony, he had learned that sometimes it was the only penalty that fit the crime. He had no doubt Rochefort’s hatred would never have diminished, and the only way to assure their safety and the safety of all those they held dear was to put an end to the threat permanently. The memory of Rochefort’s crumpled form brought a shudder to his frame, but he quickly quelled it, knowing it could have just as easily been Athos’ body lying in the grass of the abandoned field. As far as he was concerned, Rochefort’s death was the only acceptable outcome to the volatile situation.

As he reached for the reins of his horse, so lost in thought, d’Artagnan froze in surprise when the cold steel of the dagger touched his neck.

“Don’t move,” the familiar voice said coldly, “or I’ll be forced to cut that handsome neck of yours.”

“Milady,” d’Artagnan acknowledged, raising his hands to his sides in a show of cooperation. “Why am I not surprised to find you skulking about?”

Milady laughed. “Come now, d’Artagnan. Are we so far removed from our past dalliances that you no longer desire to be alone with me on such a lovely evening?”

“I would rather spend my nights in the bastille.”

“I could have arranged that, if my husband hadn’t bullied the guards into leaving like the cowards they are.”

“So that was your plan? To have Athos kill Rochefort and then have him arrested for illegal dueling?”

Milady pressed the point of the dagger into his neck. “It didn’t really matter who killed who – though just between the two of us, I was pulling for Athos. But, either way, one of my problems would be gone and the other… inconvenienced at the least.”

“So what now?” d’Artagnan knew his friends would be getting worried, wondering where he was. The edge of the dagger pressed hard into the soft skin just beneath his ear and he had no doubt the woman behind him knew exactly how to use it.

“Now, I leave Athos a friendly reminder of exactly who he is dealing with.”

The flat tone of her voice forced him into action and he shifted just as she pulled back on the blade, intending to slice open his neck. He dropped, sweeping his leg out as he pivoted, catching her ankles and pushing them out from under her. With an angry scream, Milady stumbled forward, startling the horses. The animals scattered, frightened, Athos’ mount rearing in defense.

D’Artagnan could see what was about to happen, but was powerless to stop it. As the big black gelding came down, its powerful hooves struck Milady on the back of the head with a sickening crack, knocking the woman to the ground. The young Musketeer scrambled to his feet, and shooed the horses away, quickly dropping to his knees next to the still form of Milady. He rolled her over and pulled her head onto his lap, noting the dark slick of blood that coated the hand he pulled from beneath her hair.

“Milady? Can you hear me?”

“What’s going on?”

d’Artagnan looked up in panic. Athos was standing near the head of his horse, looking down, his face a mixture of fear and disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan cried. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stop it. The horse reared and…”

He felt Aramis kneel beside him and turned to the marksman, frightened. “I couldn’t stop it,” he repeated as Aramis placed a hand on Milady’s neck, searching for a pulse. Abruptly he yanked the hat from his head and leaned close to her chest, listening.

D’Artagnan held his breath and everything seemed to stop as they waited. After a moment, Aramis raised himself and sat back on his haunches. The look on his face said everything.

Slowly his dark eyes tracked up to Athos who had not moved from his position next to the gelding. 

“I’m sorry, my friend.”

Time stopped. Nobody moved. Even the horses seemed to understand the enormity of what had happened. 

Slowly Athos released his mount and stepped toward the group on the ground. He knelt beside the body of his former wife, seemingly oblivious to the others, his eyes fixed on the still open eyes that vacantly back at him.

D’Artagnan cleared his throat and was about to apologize again, when he felt Porthos come up behind him and lay a warm hand on his shoulder. “Come on, lad. Let’s give ‘im a moment.”

D’Artagnan wanted to argue, but Aramis leaned forward and lifted Milady’s lax head from his lap, allowing Porthos to pull him back and to his feet. The big man guided him a few paces away and he looked back over his shoulder, watching as Aramis laid Milady’s head gently in Athos arms. He bowed his head and placed one hand on her head and one on the jeweled cross he wore around his neck, whispering a few words – a prayer, d’Artagnan assumed – before quietly pushing himself to his feet and moving across the field toward them.

“I couldn’t stop it –“ d’Artagnan said again, wanting them to understand he never meant to harm her.

“We know, lad,” Porthos said softly, his hand still wrapped around d’Artagnan’s bicep, keeping him from toppling to the ground despite the fact that his knees were threatening to give out. “We know.”

D’Artagnan looked up as Aramis approached, his eyes seeking forgiveness for what he perceived as his own inability to act.

“It’ll be all right,” Aramis assured him. “Athos knows this was the inevitable ending.”

“He loved her.”

Aramis nodded, exchanging a knowing look with Porthos. “He did once, perhaps still in some way.”

D’Artagnan gasped, his heart breaking. “He’ll hate me for this,” His voice was barely a whisper, his anguish palpable.

Aramis grasped his arms and shook him, forcing him to meet the Spaniard’s dark eyes. “He loved her, yes. But he loves you also. He could no more hate you then he could hate her.” His voice softened as d’Artagnan closed his eyes in resignation. “Give him time, d’Artagnan. He will need our support and our strength – all of us. Don’t deny him that when he needs you the most.”

D’Artagnan nodded, his eyes drifting back to the scene before them.

Athos sat on the cold ground, cradling Milady’s body in his arms. His head was bowed, lying atop hers and he gently rocked, his quiet grief drifting with the faint breeze. D’Artagnan stood, his heart heavy, knowing Aramis and Porthos felt the same pain for their friend. He knew Aramis was right. Athos would need their strength to stop himself from falling into the bottom of a bottle. It was their duty to buoy his spirit until he was able to stand once again on his own, placing his grief and memories into their proper places and move on. 

It wouldn’t be easy – none of them were foolish enough to believe that. Athos had ordered her death once, he had held her life in his hand a second time and found himself unable to condemn her again. Perhaps this was for the best. Her loss would pain him, but he would not have to carry the burden of her death on his shoulders. 

He would see that… eventually. And until then, they would make sure he knew he was not alone in his grief.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

Porthos had ridden back to the garrison and arranged a cart to take Milady and Rochefort back to Paris where they would be given proper burials at the expense of the Comte de La Fere. The bodies were delivered to the morgue and Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan remained outside the entrance to the underground cavern, restlessly waiting for their friend to return.

The journey back had been a somber one, little being said in the wake of the evening’s tragedy. The pounding in his head had not relented, but Aramis pushed it aside, focusing on the stoic, solemn form of Athos as they trudged back through the city gates. The older man had spoken only to request they remain outside while he spoke to the undertaker, and now they stood, waiting, unsure of their friend’s frame of mind.

Aramis knew Athos had never completely gotten past the emotions he’d once felt for his former wife. Though he wasn’t sure it could still be considered love, there was something that still connected them that was painfully apparent any time the two were near each other. The poet in him had wanted to see something worth saving in Milady – if only for Athos sake – but the soldier in him had recognized the conniving, scheming woman who would stop at nothing to get vengeance on the man she felt had wronged her. It was a tragic tale, one that he would wish upon nobody, let alone one of his dearest, most vulnerable friends.

Athos may show a mask of indifference to the world, but his closest friends – his family – had been able to see past that mask to the damaged man beneath. It was their steadfast support and friendship that had allowed Athos to let down his guard and reach out to life once more, and Aramis would be damned if he’d allow Milady to take that away again. She could no longer harm him, and Aramis vowed to stay by Athos’ side to make sure he knew he would not be allowed to wallow in self-recrimination any longer.

Of course, that was his plan until Athos stepped back onto the street and ordered them to return to the garrison and check on Treville.

“We’re not leaving you alone,” Porthos echoed Aramis’ thoughts.

D’Artagnan stood beside the big man, his shoulders rounded, his eyes warily watching his mentor. Aramis felt sorry for the young man, still so unsure of his place in their lives. He knew Athos would in no way blame d’Artagnan for anything that had happened, but right now, his head was filled with grief and he could not see how devastated the younger man was at the turn of events.

“I appreciate your concern,” Athos said, looking each of them in the eye. “But I can assure you it is misplaced. I’m fine. I just need some time to myself.”

“Athos –“ Aramis began to argue the point, but Athos held up a hand to cut him off. 

“She has not been a part of my life for some time. I know this is the only way this could end and I was prepared for the inevitability. I promise you, I will not do anything rash without consulting you first.”

Athos raised a brow to Aramis, waiting patiently as he studied him, assessing the truth in his statement. Aramis could see no deception in his friend’s eyes, and reluctantly nodded.

“Good,” Athos let the side of his mouth rise in a suggestion of a smile. “I give you my word I will return to the garrison shortly. In the meantime, get some rest. I can tell your head still pains you,” he turned his attention to d’Artagnan and Porthos, “and you are all in need of sleep.” His eyes softened as he looked at d’Artagnan before turning to Porthos. “I’m counting on you to take care of them.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “I’ll keep ‘em in line.” He sobered instantly. “You sure you’re all right?”

Athos tilted his head and pursed his lips, considering the question. “I am… unburdened.”

Aramis smiled. It was a start.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

“He should’ve returned by now.” 

D’Artagnan paced away from the table once more, his hands twisting in frustration, his eyes on the road beyond the archway.

“He’ll be fine,” Aramis called out once again. He glanced at Porthos who rolled his eyes at the anxiety enveloping the youngest member of their group. They had returned directly from the morgue after watching Athos ride off in the opposite direction toward the Pont Neuf and the Palace. It had occurred to the marksman that Athos might decide to confront the Cardinal in his present state, but knew the man’s self-control would not allow him to create a situation he would not be able to get himself out of. 

So, believing Athos would not act out of grief or anger, he had followed Porthos back to the garrison, burying his concerns for one comrade under those for another.

Treville was awake, though still weak, but as Daquin had assured, the feeling in his legs was returning as he healed and at present he was able to move his toes, which had done wonders for the overall disposition of the men under his command.

“d’Artagnan, sit down,” Porthos ordered, not for the first time. The younger man’s anxiety was beginning to gnaw on the big man’s nerves and Aramis couldn’t completely stifle the chuckle that rose up at his friend’s frustration.

D’Artagnan, ignored him, forcing Aramis to intercede before Porthos took matters into his very capable hands.

“I’d do what he asks, my friend. Porthos isn’t one to exercise endless patience.”

D’Artagnan sighed and with a final look to the archway, reluctantly slouched down next to Aramis.

“Where is he?”

Aramis smiled and placed an arm along the younger man’s shoulders. “Everyone deals with grief in their own way. Athos needs solace to make sense of it. He’ll be back. And then we can take him out and get him properly drunk.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I just want to talk to him. Make sure…”

“He won’t blame you, lad.” Porthos assured him once more. “You’ve gotta get that out of your head.”

“I should’ve done… something, anything to save her.”

“It was an accident,” Aramis consoled him. “Athos knows that. You are not at fault.”

D’Artagnan didn’t look convinced. 

“d’Artagnan, did you push Milady in front of that horse?”

The younger man looked at him in horror. “No! Of course not!”

“Did you somehow make the horse rear up and strike her?”

“No.” The Gascons’s voice was a bit quieter as Aramis’ logic began to temper his guilt.

“Then how can you be blamed for something you had no control of?”

D’Artagnan considered this for a few moments then sighed, frustrated. “I can’t.”

Porthos chuckled. “Finally.” 

Aramis slapped him on the back. “Athos considers you his brother. He trusts you would never do anything to cause him pain. Can you give him the benefit of the doubt that he will not hold you accountable for something you had no power to change?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I guess.” He looked up at Aramis, and the marksman frowned, puzzled by the sincerity in his eyes. “You know that goes for me, too, right? I would never do anything that could bring you harm.” He looked quickly to Porthos then back to Aramis again. “Either of you.”

Aramis nodded, his eyes searching his young friend’s, suddenly realizing exactly what he was trying to say.

He knew.

Aramis felt his breath catch in his throat, his heartbeat quicken in his chest. He swallowed hard, his eyes holding d’Artagnan’s in alarm.

“d’Artagnan…,” he breathed, his voice failing him. 

No. This was something he could not accept. It was bad enough Athos’ and Porthos’ lives were at risk, he couldn’t stand to be have d’Artagnan’s neck in the noose alongside them. He had been desperate to keep his secret from the younger man, knowing he would never be able to live with placing that kind of weight on the Gascon’s shoulders. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe d’Artagnan loyal enough to their brotherhood to keep the secret, it was knowing how torn he would be between his duty to them and his duty to the Crown. How could Aramis force him to choose? After all they had tried to teach him, to show him of duty and honor, how could he put d’Artagnan in such a position to have to chose between those loyalties?

“Aramis, it’s all right.” D’Artagnan seemed to sense his turmoil and placed a hand on his arm, squeezing reassuringly. “I understand. And I would never betray your trust.”

Porthos, who had finally deduced what was happening, sighed in relief.

Aramis looked away, unable to meet the sincerity in d’Artagnan’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I never wanted you to know. I never wanted any of you to be put in peril because of my weakness.”

“It’s no weakness to love, Aramis,’ d’Artagnan assured him. He snorted a laugh. “I of all people can understand that kind of want. I do not blame you for giving into something I wish with all my heart I could have.”

Aramis blinked back the burning behind his eyes and sighed. He lowered his head, running his hands through his hair, unable to meet the concern he knew shone on both his brothers’ faces. He had no idea how he had been lucky enough to find friends such as these, but he would forever thank God for allowing him to be so blessed. “I can never express how fortunate I am that fate brought you both into my life.” He lowered his hands, clasping them on the table and gave Porthos, then d’Artagnan a tremulous smile.

Porthos’ big hand covered his as d’Artagnan once again squeezed his forearm. “No need, ‘Mis. We’re family, eh?”

“All for one,” d’Artagnan placed a hand over Porthos’ and grinned. 

Aramis nodded. “And one for all.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos dismounted at the Palace gates, handing his mount to one of the stable boys and made his way to Cardinal Mazarin’s office. The guard at the entrance stopped him, but a quick glance at the pauldron on his shoulder and the look in Athos’ eyes, gave him pause and he stepped back, allowing him to pass.

Athos didn’t bother to knock. He opened the door and entered the office, much to the surprise of the Cardinal who was at his desk, making notations in a large book. The Cardinal looked up, annoyed at the intrusion, one brow rising as he recognized his uninvited guest.

“Athos.” The Cardinal pushed himself back, reclining in the chair and pasting a smile on his face as if he was welcoming an esteemed colleague. “If you are here to inquire about the whereabouts of the Comte de Rochefort, I’m afraid I have no news.”

“Rochefort is dead.” Athos watched carefully, content to see the flash of alarm darken the Cardinal’s countenance.

“I assume you had a hand in this?”

Athos nodded. “It was my sword that ended his life.”

Mazarin took a deep breath, his eyes leveled on the Musketeer. “I suppose you will claim it was self defense.”

“Rochefort challenged me. I had little choice.”

Mazarin smiled. “Of course. I must admit to my disappointment after allowing him a second chance.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval. “I will inform the King and we can consider this matter closed.” He moved to return to his work, effectively dismissing the Musketeer, but Athos stepped forward, waiting until the Cardinal raised his eyes, giving him his attention once more.

“Was there anything else?”

The warning in the Cardinal’s tone was obvious, but Athos was in no mood to play the man’s game of intimidation. 

“Milady de Winter is also dead.” 

Athos was surprised at how effortlessly the words rolled off his tongue. He had been sure he would falter when finally stating the fact aloud. They were words he’d never uttered easily before, even when he’d believed her dead by his hand all those years ago. 

He could still feel her limp body in her arms and he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a glint of grief knowing the woman he had once given his heart and soul to would no longer be part of this world. But with that grief came a release knowing her need for vengeance would no longer be a threat to the people he loved. He’d mourn her passing, but he would not lose himself again. He’d done that for far too long. He’d allowed her hold over him to taint everything good in his life, but with her death had come a sort of clarity.

He would always shoulder the blame for what she had become, but he would no longer be responsible for the decisions she alone had made. He would forever love her – or at least the woman he had believed her to be -- but would not hold himself accountable for the woman she had become.

It was… liberating. A feeling he was sure Aramis would applaud.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Mazarin said, his face carefully blank. “I have never had the pleasure of making Madame de Winter’s acquaintance.”

Athos allowed himself a small smile as he narrowed his eyes at the man. The Cardinal’s face had paled at the news, and even though his expression remained carefully passive, Athos could see the apprehension in his eyes.

“But she knew you, Your Eminence. She is, in all probability, the reason you are here.”

Mazarin’s brows rose. “Are you insinuating that this woman is responsible for Cardinal Richelieu’s death?”

“Not her alone.”

Mazarin’s eyes hardened. “You should tread carefully, my dear Athos. Such words can be easily misconstrued. Accusations – whether based in truth or not -- can sometimes lead to disarming results. ”

Athos stepped forward and leaned both fists on the edge of the desk, smiling coldly as Mazarin unconsciously pressed back into his chair. “Then let me make myself perfectly clear, I will not take any threat to the King or Queen lightly. Nor do I tolerate threats to my friends. I can assure you, Cardinal, that any move against them would not be misconstrued and would be dealt with swiftly and justly. Your pawns are gone. My knights are quite capable of striking at any time.”

Mazarin swallowed, the eyes narrowing at the thinly veiled warning.

“If I didn’t know you better, I would deem that a threat.”

Athos rose to his full height, his face once again a mask of carefully controlled indifference. “You don’t know me at all.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Upon returning to the garrison, Aramis had insisted he seek out d’Artagnan and confirm what Aramis and Porthos had already told him. The young Gascon was relieved, finding comfort in the fact that though somber at the loss he had suffered, his mentor held no rancor and confirmed that he still held d’Artagnan in the highest esteem, placing no blame for Milady’s death on the young man’s shoulders. Soon after sending d’Artagnan off to get some much needed rest, Athos met with the news that Captain Treville was awake and asking for him. Though, from Aramis’ expression, he knew something of import had happened, but the marksman waved him off, telling him it was nothing and that he shouldn’t keep the Captain waiting. 

Though he felt the need to stay and find out what was troubling his friend, Athos reluctantly acquiesced and quietly entered the sick room, relieved to find Treville propped up against a pile of pillows, awake and alert.

“It’s good to see you looking well, Captain,” Athos allowed himself a smile of relief as he took a chair by the man’s bedside. Aramis had told him the good news regarding the Captain’s condition, but had not truly believed it until seeing for himself.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude for your quick thinking in getting me help.”

Athos shook his head. “You owe me nothing, sir. I’m pleased you will recover. Aramis says the feeling in your legs is returning rapidly.”

Treville rubbed at his thigh. “It’s more pins and needles at the moment, but yes. I can move them with less pain, so I am hopeful.”

“That is good news.” Athos studied the man for a moment. Years of reading the man’s facial expressions had given him insight into how Treville operated, and right now he could sense there was more to the Captain’s request for his presence than to simply share his good news. “But you asked me here for a reason?”

He posed the question to give Treville the opportunity to get to the point with as little difficulty as possible.

“I have accepted a position on Louis’ council.”

Athos’ brow rose at the admission. He couldn’t imagine Treville anything but a soldier, knowing the man hated politics almost as much as he did.

“You’re leaving the Musketeers?”

“I’m not a young man, anymore, Athos. And, I’m not fool enough to believe my recovery will be anything other than arduous and challenging. It would be quite some time before I could resume my duties – if ever. I believe I can do more good at the Palace from now on.” 

Athos nodded sagely. He didn’t like it, but realized the Captain was making a logical choice. Leading the Musketeers was a job that required skill and strength – both attributes Treville held in magnitude. But the demands of being in charge of the King’s first line of defense would not be conducive to the lengthy recuperation Treville was facing. There were no guarantees he would make it back to his previous state of health and the day-to-day strain of command could prove damaging to his recovery. It made sense to secure a less physically demanding position that still allowed him to continue his service to the King. 

“I understand,” Athos replied, allowing the remorse he felt at the loss to show in his voice. “But know you will be greatly missed. Your leadership is something that will not be easily replaced.”

“It will be far easier if you’d accept the command in my stead.”

Athos was at a loss. While he’d always been aware of the possibility that he would someday be asked to take command, he thought Treville understood that it would be an honor he could not accept. “With all due respect, Captain, I am not a leader.”

“You are, Athos. More than you know. Your men – all the men – respect you and look to you already. You are the only man I would feel comfortable turning this regiment over to.”

“I appreciate you faith, but…”

“But you are not a politician.”

Athos managed a wry grin. “Civility under pressure is sometimes not my strength.”

Treville chuckled, nodding in agreement. “I’ll admit, handling then King can be a challenge –“

“One I am sorely unequipped for.”

“So find someone who is.”

Athos frowned. “Sir?”

Treville shrugged. “A liaison. Someone who is better at cosseting the fragile egos of the King and his court. Someone who can charm them into doing whatever you need them to do.”

Athos eyed the man suspiciously. “It sounds as if you have someone specific in mind.”

“Aramis.”

The Musketeer silently congratulated himself for not laughing out loud. “I don’t think Aramis would be the right man to liaise the Palace.” Considering the circumstances, Athos could not think of a worse candidate for the job.

“Don’t sell him short, Athos. Despite… everything… he may surprise you, given the chance.”

Athos felt his heart pounding in his chest. He eyed the Captain warily. “Despite… everything?”

Treville’s face remained unreadable. “Let’s just say I have a soft spot for the Queen. And sometimes when people assume you are unconscious they don’t take as many precautions as they should.”

Athos drew in a deep breath. So Aramis and the Queen had been alone here. He closed his eyes and sighed, silently chastising the Spaniard for his carelessness.

“Athos.”

The Musketeer opened his eyes to find Treville staring at him pointedly. “I have been the Queen’s protector since she was a young girl. When she arrived, she was alone, frightened, but has since grown into a great woman and a great Queen. I would like to believe her trust in me was a small part of that. My loyalty is to the King and France, but we both know Louis can be somewhat… impetuous and self-serving at times. He does not treat his Queen with the love and honor she deserves. Anne is a good woman. I will not allow her to come to harm, from anyone.”

“I do not believe… anyone… means her harm, Captain.”

“That was my conclusion also. I have thought long and hard about what I observed, Athos. Anne is no longer a child and she is strong enough to make her own decisions, her own choices. If this is her choice – though unwise it may be -- I will not be the one to dispel what little happiness she has been able to find in this life.”

Athos found himself at a loss for words, not wanting to confirm or deny what the Captain was alluding to.

“Just keep a close eye on the situation, and I will do the same at court. We must all remain diligent, but with care and assiduousness, I believe her happiness does not have to be shattered.”

“Perhaps.” Athos admitted, still uncomfortable with having Aramis’ secret known by anyone other than himself and Porthos. Despite not having said anything out loud, it was obvious the Captain was knowingly placing his neck in the noose with them and, Athos realized, there was little he could do about it. He nodded, desperately wanting to change the subject. “What does Cardinal Mazarin have to say about this?”

Treville laughed. “The Cardinal was not pleased, but Louis is counting on you. He believes, as do I, you are the best man for the job.”

Athos was touched by Treville’s words. Though he still believed himself far from qualified, as Captain of the Musketeers, Athos would have more power to protect Aramis and to give d’Artagnan the kind of training and guidance he needed to fulfill his potential. He still believed the young Gascon had the promise to become the best of them all, and he would be an idiot to turn down the opportunity to place himself in a position to help the lad accomplish that. Mazarin was still a threat, but with his trusted agents no longer at his call, the man was a dog without teeth. Mazarin wasn’t the intellectual equal of Richelieu and Athos believed with Treville’s help, they could keep the man from becoming dangerous to the Musketeers as well as France.

Athos still believed he was not the right choice, but could not think of another more qualified that would be as much of an advantage to the others. For their sakes, he agreed. 

“I accept, but on one condition. That this is a temporary arrangement until a more suitable replacement can be found.” Despite Treville’s confidence, he believed there would be someone more qualified who could fill the Captain’s boots in the eyes of the men… eventually.

Treville clapped his hands together once and smiled, relieved. “Good. Then it’s settled. I will inform the King of the arrangement as soon as possible.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis took the stairs two at a time. He was finally feeling somewhat normal, the pounding in his head having finally ceased, leaving him pain free for the first time in a week. It had been three days since the Captain had been allowed out of bed, and it was good to know the man was on his way to recovery. He still ambled about quite slowly, leaning heavily on the cane, which would, in all probability, become a permanent part of his life, never far from one of the Musketeers who had been assigned to watch over him. 

Still, it had been a surprise when he’d been informed upon arrival at the garrison that the Captain had requested his presence in his office as soon as he reported for duty. He was pleased with Treville’s progress so far, but he didn’t believe the man ready for stair climbing no matter how badly he wanted to return to duty.

As he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he was rehearsing his lecture on why the healing process could not be rushed, so was taken completely by surprise when he found Athos seated behind the paper strewn desk. He looked… different than Aramis was accustomed to seeing the man. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been tugging it in all directions, his doublet hung open and his face held an expression of frustration. He looked up at the intrusion with a sigh of relief.

“Athos! They said the Captain wanted to see me –“ 

The older man smiled wearily and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his hands across his face, clearly overwhelmed by the number of parchments before him.

“I don’t know how Treville did this.” He waved a hand across the desktop and shook his head. “It all seems so… trivial.”

Aramis grinned sympathetically. “Ah, paperwork. The bane of command.” Obviously Treville had asked Athos to help out until he was able to return to duty. Aramis relaxed, knowing the lecture he had been rehearsing would not be needed today.

“If I had realized the position would be more monotony than maneuver I would never have agreed to take it.

Aramis stepped forward, his smile widening as the meaning of Athos’ words registered. Athos was not simply filling in for the Captain, he was the Captain. Treville must have officially accepted the King’s offer and recommended Louis appoint Athos his successor. Despite the fact that Aramis had more seniority, the marksman held no resentment, feeling the former Comte the best qualified for the job. He held out his hand to his new commanding officer.

“Congratulations my friend. I can think of no one more deserving of the honor.”

“Thank you.” Athos resolutely shook the proffered hand, his expression wry. “I will admit to many reservations in my ability to carry on in Captain Treville’s stead. Despite his confidence in my abilities to lead, the men may not agree. They’ve seen me at my worst. I know I’ve spent too long trying to drink myself to death because of my past. I’m afraid I may not be up to the task.”

“It is necessary to have wished for death to know how good it is to live.”

Athos tipped his head, giving his friend a grateful smile. “As always, Aramis, you know just what to say to make the improbable seem possible.” 

“I have no doubt you will find yourself more than capable, my friend. And be assured, Porthos, d’Artagnan and I will do whatever we can to assist.” Aramis placed his hand over his heart, and gave his new commanding officer a formal bow.

“I never doubted that. Which is why I asked to see you.”

“Whatever you need, Captain.” The marksman couldn’t resist the title, even in the face of Athos’ scowl.

“That will take a bit of getting used to.” 

Athos gestured for Aramis to take a seat and the younger man dropped into the chair, eager to lend whatever aid he could to make his friend’s transition easier. 

“It’s no secret my… personal skills are somewhat lacking.”

Aramis chuckled, nodding in assent. “You’re a man of few words, I will admit. But you still get your point across.”

Athos threw him a glare that only made his smile widen. While he was pleased with the change, Athos was right; it was going to take some getting used to. 

“Be that as it may, I doubt the King or the Cardinal will be thrilled with my brand of tact. They seem to prefer a more… loquacious form of communication.”

“I see your problem.” Aramis tilted his head, his brows high. 

“Good, then you are willing to help with the solution?”

“What can I do? If you would like me to tutor you in the art of conversation, I’m afraid you are quite set in your ways.” Aramis grinned, knowing that because of his background, Athos could be very eloquent when he chose to be. Unfortunately, the desire was the larger part of the problem.

Athos nodded. “Quite, which is why I want you to be my liaison with the Palace.”

Aramis’ brows rose and he stared at his friend for a moment, completely taken by surprise. “You want… what?” After spending so much time and effort to keep him away from the Queen and the Palace, it made no sense that he would now want him there on purpose.

“You. Liaison.” Athos expression didn’t change as he returned the marksman’s stare. 

Aramis scoffed and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re actually offering me a legitimate reason to be at the Palace?”

Athos shrugged. “To be completely honest, I have my reservations. It was actually Treville’s idea.”

“Treville?”

“It would seem our Captain was more observant than we’d believed while in his sick bed.”

Aramis closed his eyes and dropped his head. “Oh, God.” They had thought him unconscious. If Treville had heard his and Anne’s conversation or been aware of their closeness… Aramis could almost feel the rope tightening on his neck. He looked back to Athos, unsure what to say.

Athos’s face was unreadable. “Apparently, the Captain believes the Queen would benefit from this arrangement. I have no idea why he would believe this but…” He shrugged, a grin playing on his lips.

Aramis could hardly believe his ears. Treville was man he had always considered most loyal to the King. The Captain had always been quite fond of the Queen, but Aramis had no idea the man would go to such lengths to protect her – and himself. He knew Treville had given him much more leeway than most due to the Captain’s deep remorse over his part in the massacre of Savoy, but to allow what was tantamount to treason to continue without so much as a reprimand was more than he’d ever dare to dream. He huffed a surprised laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this. I never doubted your’s or Porthos’ silence, my friend, but to have Treville go to such lengths... I’m truly speechless.”

“That would be a first.”

Aramis ignored the jibe. “I don’t know what to say.”

Athos raised a brow. “’Yes’ would suffice.”

Aramis grinned. “Yes.”

“Then it’s agreed. You will officially be made a lieutenant, and in addition to you regular duties, you will report to the Palace when the need arises.”

Aramis rose and extended his hand once again, taking Athos’ in both of his, his dark eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you, Captain. Your trust means more than I can say.”

Athos placed his other hand on top of Aramis, linking them together solidly. “It has been earned. Just make sure I have no cause to regret it.”

“I won’t let you down.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos and d’Artagnan were waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. From the looks on their faces, they knew exactly what had transpired in Athos’ office.

“So?” Porthos asked, not even bothering to hide his grin. “How was the new Captain?”

Aramis returned the grin. “I believe we’ll be able to bend him to our ways with little trouble.”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “Calling Athos ‘captain’ is going to take some getting used to.”

“Not only for us, but we must show him the respect he deserves,” Aramis responded. “After everything we’ve been through, it’s good to know sometimes, providence does shine on the just.”

“How’s he handlin’ it?” Porthos asked, his eyes straying to the closed door of the office above. “The man spent so long trying to drink himself to death, it’s hard to imagine him not leanin’ on that particular crutch anymore.”

Aramis nodded judiciously at Porthos observation. “If he feels that urge, we will simply have to make sure he has something else to lean on.”

“So what now?” d’Artagnan asked, shrugging and shaking his head in uncertainty. “Things aren’t going to be the same around here.”

Aramis put an arm around each of his friend’s shoulders and began to lead them to the archway. “Change is inevitable, my friends. And what we do with it makes us who we are. But until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, -- ‘wait and hope’.”

Porthos shook his head, smiling fondly. “You would’ve made a good priest, Aramis. Or a poet. You know that?”

“Ah, my dear Porthos. I’m a Musketeer. And on my honor, I’d never wish to be anything else.”

The End.

Aramis’ line about ‘wait and hope’ is actually a quote from Alexandre Dumas in the book ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. I thought it appropriate for the ending here. ☺ The title of this fic is also taken from a Dumas quote; “Never fear quarrels, but seek hazardous adventures.” It is advice to d’Artagnan from his father when he first sets out for Paris. Seemed to sum up the Musketeers to me. Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited and put these stories on alert. You guys rock! I would love to hear what you thought! Thanks again for your time and patience!! -- Sue


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